


Well Roared, Lion

by treeson



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 112,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeson/pseuds/treeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed ironic that the one thing that could ruin the magical world, the defeat of Voldemort, and Hermione Granger's perfectly ordered life was a book. Time-travel fic. DH, but not epilogue, compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> I begun this story in 2008. It's also my first one, where I can see where I have (and have not) improved since then. It's unfinished for now.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or any characters therein. They are entirely J.K. Rowling's, and I'm kinda happy about that since I'm not stuck with shipper zealots. Cue evil laughter.

* * *

 **"** Be careful when reading health books. You may die of a misprint. **"**

 **Mark Twain**

* * *

If someone had asked her that morning if she would be contemplating burning a book, she would have gasped then slapped the offender, then given them a lecture on how heinous burning knowledge was. And if she had her prefect's badge — which, unfortunately, she didn't — she would have given them a detention.

Now, she was only wondering how big of flames she could get.

Nine hundred and thirty-nine pages. Admittedly, it was a fairly large book - although she had read and seen bigger. The problem with this leather bound book was that all the pages - all nine hundred and thirty-nine of them - were blank.

It was disconcerting. It was frustrating. It was _painful_.

And her nerves were almost frayed to the end.

It was unlike any other book she had ever seen. Bound in the smoothest, blackest leather, the book nearly _glowed_ with the knowledge it contained inside. The book held an ethereal, otherworldly aura that begged to be basked in. The pages were thin with age, but not wear and crackled like thunder as she flipped them; the smell of them euphoric. Her fingers itched to caress the worn pages, her eyes yearned to read the ancient words; her body had ached for action of the scholarly sort ever since she had found it hidden in a hole at the bottom of the marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw in Ravenclaw Tower.

But, out of all the pleasing aesthetic reasons of her need to read the book, the emblem on the spine that replaced the title sealed it for her. A small silver circle, complete with four fading stars in four different colors.

The elusive Founders emblem had only been seen once before - as noted by _Hogwarts, A History_ \- when they had sent the requisite forms to the Ministry of Magic that officially opened the school to students. It was the first, believed to be the last, time it had ever been used.

And she held this piece of real, groundbreaking history in her hands and it was _blank._

Hermione had always believed Fate had a sick, sick sense of humor but this was a new low.

 _Especially since her life_   
_  
**seemed**   
_   
_to be getting back on track._

The Dark Lord was dead, along with most of the more dangerous and fanatical of the Death Eaters, and the destroyed Hogwarts was slowly being restored. She even had a chance of apprenticing under Professor McGonagall for a year until she took her spot as Transfiguration professor.

Now, her life was being screwed by a _book_. Ron would have a ball with that one.

 _Not that she would tell him, for that matter._

After trying to speak to him numerous times after the Final Battle to sort out the troubles they had during the Horcrux hunt, Hermione had to admit defeat of ever having their old friendship back. Ron could not stand that she had stayed with Harry on the hunt rather than abandon him for creature comforts — like edible food and a warm bed. She had also known that it was the piece of Voldemort's soul in the locket making him irrational, which was another reason he was sore. She had figured it out and stayed with Harry while he had left.

 _Of course, he and Harry were as right as rain,_ she mused sullenly, immediately feeling bad when she remembered the stress it was putting on Harry to have his two best friends not on speaking terms. She would feel bad for that too, but she knew for a fact that it was Ron's fault and not hers.

 _  
**She**   
_   
_hadn't abandoned the Boy-Who-Lived when he was on a mission to rid the Earth of the most evil wizard only seconded by Grindewald and expect all to be forgiven with a muttered, "Sorry mate," and then snube the person who **had** stayed with Harry.  
_

Hermione sighed. She must really be getting disturbed by the book if she was thinking about _that_ again. _Though she should write that down so she would have sufficient defense to throw at him when he finally did blow, which she knew he would._

"Finally going round the bend, Granger? Or is working with Lovegood getting to you?"

Despite herself, Hermione grinned at the sound of the drawling voice on the other side of the library table. She knew Malfoy's apology was due to his and his parents' trials and need of at least one of the Golden Trio's support and not because of any guilt he felt. However, his sarcastic and witty humour was appreciated when he had just caught her muttering to herself and glaring daggers at a book. It was easy to forget everything and fall into his witty banter and dry humour that would leave the normal war veterans cringing with distaste. And she definitely needed that release now.

"I would think you'd know something about that, Malfoy, seeing as Death Eaters generally require a certain mental derangement."

"One point to Granger," he said, sitting down across from her and smiling congenially. It was a wonder how a simple smile could transform a face usually cloaked in a sneer. Resting his chin on his hand, he eyed her questioningly, letting the table lapse into a brief silence. "You okay? You're looking a bit peaky."

 _Probably from the blood loss. She had never been too fond of losing it._

 _Of course she would ignore the connotations of Dark Magic she had delved into when she had donated her blood to the ancient book._

 _And she would certainly never tell Harry that._

 _And she would_   
_  
**definitely**   
_   
_leave out the part about her writing in it. Even if it was just runes and not words. Well… not many words._

"Fine, thank you. Is there any reason you're here, other than to try charming Madam Pince into letting you into the Restricted Section?" she asked, languidly tracing the natural curves and lines of the leather on the book to distract him from looking at the spine.

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, apparently satisfied - and distracted - by her change of subject and let his arms fall to the table, resting his head on them and looking to her pityingly.

"I accepted long ago that Pince will never again let me into the Restricted Section." He sighed, still looking like a dog begging for a treat. She had the insane urge to pat his head. "Granger, would you -"

"And risk my access to the Restricted Section?" Hermione interrupted haughtily. "I think not. It was hard enough getting into the library itself after the damage done to it and even harder getting permission from Professor McGonagall. You'll just have to try with Professor Slughorn."

He frowned across from her, contemplating. It was ridiculously easy sometimes to figure out what he was thinking. His face was too expressive and she had a hard time not snickering when his grey eyes lit up and he pushed his now shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.

"Professor Sprout would surely be more susceptible to my pleas."

"Your charms, you mean," Hermione corrected absently. She shrugged, mulling the idea of the junior Death Eater asking the down to earth witch to get into the Restricted Section where thousands of books were Dark magic personified and the rest were, at the very least, morally ambiguous.

"I think you would have more luck with Professor Slughorn. He's been pining for someone to fawn over since Harry hides from him and I never go down to the dungeons. Might take a lot of compliments, but at least you wouldn't have to worry about your dismal past regarding Neville with Professor Sprout."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her, though the small quirk of amusement in his lips gave him away. "Or _you_ could get me the book I need."

Hermione smiled mischievously as she stood up, and picked up the book from the table along with her small purse - still filled with her 'tools of survival' as she called it - and looked down at Malfoy. He really was still eleven years old in some respects, as witnessed as his lower lip jutted out.

"And miss your next attempt at charming me? Never." She didn't wait for him to respond but headed for the exit, waving mockingly over her shoulder for good measure.

* * *

Hermione sighed. There were a lot of things in the world she could handle. Murderous professors, celebrity best-friends, rude ex-best-friends, and an E on her Defense O.W.L.

What she could not handle was defeat.

She had spent seven years fighting against her Muggleborn-lineage to be accepted in this world - her _rightful_ world if there ever was one - and never had she let one foul, loathsome smear from Malfoy or one of the other pureblood Slytherins get to her. She had fought, kicking and screaming, to prove she could be just as good - if not better - than them. She could recite laws and rules off the top of her head and could throw a mean Stinging Hex that lasted for hours, as proved by one Death Eater, still shouting and screaming as they dragged him off to Azkaban in the aftermath of the Final Battle.

She had worked hard to rise above prejudice. And not just against her blood either, as proven by Ron's many slurs that boiled down to her inability to do anything _womanly_. She had thought, after proving herself in the war, that prejudice would be over, that she could spend the rest of her life being accepted and admired for her intelligence and not her womanly curves - or lack thereof - and blood.

But now this one book threatened to ruin her hard-won win. If anyone found out that _she_ had failed to make a single word appear - _she could live with just the Table of Contents! -_ then all her hard work and seven years were wasted. People would only see _this_ failure and not her many accomplishments or deeds. A double-edged sword that would wound her either way it struck.

 _It was a bloody book, for Merlin's sake! It shouldn't be this hard to read!_

Alas, it was.

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her bare shoulders, the warm sun disappearing below the horizon leaving a slight chill to the September air. Her white sundress did little to lessen the coldness of the green grass underneath her, but she sat down just the same. The grim picture of the ruined castle across the lake made her feel small and insignificant in comparison. She held tightly to that image, as tightly as she held the book, because she knew if she imagined the perfect Hogwarts, whole and not needing her help to restore it, she would be lost. It seemed like it was the only thing she had left these days; the cold ruin of Hogwarts.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her knees, the smell of grass, her jasmine perfume, and ancient parchment mingling together perfectly for the background of the senseless pain she was feeling. She could feel the potential for tears in her eyes, but blinked a few times to mute the possibility. She didn't want to cry. She wasn't that desperate yet.

The ridges of the leather bound book were indented on her palm, her grip making the tendons on her arms stand out, white in comparison to her dark skin; in comparison to her desperation.

"Just…" She breathed in, not liking the way her voice cracked. She swallowed and continued. "Just let me read you. _Please_."

* * *

He gasped and blinked a few times, staring hard at the spot beside the lake as if the force of his stare could take back what he had just witnessed.

No, it couldn't be. His eyes were playing tricks. Maybe she had just…

His eyes scanned around the scene, taking in every detail of the idyllic picture of the serene lake and the sunset behind it but not seeing - not finding - the one he needed to find most.

Hermione Granger had disappeared in the blink of an eye. _His_ eye, to be precise.

Draco Malfoy started to run.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall had to be the second scariest person in the world. But with Voldemort killed by the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Pain-In-His-Arse, she had just ascended the scariest person in the world throne and was looking down on him, the order for him to be castrated, shaved, and cut into pieces and thrown to the Giant Squid as Draco Malfoy lollipops on the edge of her tongue.

He looked at the grim set to the Headmistress's lips.

 _Surely the Dark Lord would be more merciful._

"And you say she just…"

"Disappeared, yes," he finished when she let the sentence linger, like a manticore contemplating the eternal question. To bite or not to bite.

Or in McGonagall's case: To kill or not to kill.

"Are you saying she Disapparated?" asked the title holder for most wasted space.

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate on the grounds of Hogwarts!" came two separate outbursts, one cold and glaring and one crisp and scathing. McGonagall and Draco eyed each other in the silence that descended over the room before promptly ignoring what had occurred.

"Then she just…"

"Disappeared, yes," Draco repeated, feeling as if he were a recording on one of those sappy cards Pansy gave him for Valentine's the year before.

 _At least he wasn't saying, "I love you, Drakey-poo". There was at least one silver lining to this dark cloud._

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley both had identical, confused frowns on their faces but still managed to glare at him suspiciously. Seven years had the two boys in tandem, it seemed.

 _If only they had latched onto some of Granger's brains._

"How do we know you're not in on…" Weasley waved his arm vaguely, searching for a word that would undoubtedly never come to him.

"How do we know this isn't some trick?" Potter asked as Weasley floundered, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at him.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Gryffindor blunder, but only because their staunch defender was eyeing him from behind her desk and Draco didn't need to wonder if kitty still had her claws.

She did.

"And just _why_ would I risk my comfortable life restoring the castle for a nice stay in Azkaban for a _trick_ , Potty?" he asked, wondering how any words at all escaped his fiercely gritted teeth. "Really, it's no wonder you two decided to skip seventh year to go straight into Auror training. Your astuteness is astounding."

Potter and Weasley immediately bristled, their hands clenching into fists so tight that he contemplated that maybe _that_ was where all the blood was going instead of their brains.

Draco personally thought he had a great aptitude for alliteration.

"Enough," said McGonagall before they could continue sniping - or in Weasley's case, start punching. Draco looked back to her, and though her sharp eyes were narrowed, he could tell she believed him. Thank Merlin for the few and rare intelligent Gryffindors.

The witch clasped her hands in front of her, and Draco tried to not notice how they had been shaking but still felt the clench of his insides. _If even McGonagall was scared…_

"We shall notify the Aurors immediately. Mr. Weasley, if you would use the Floo in the entrance hall to contact your father, things would progress much quicker."

"She could have just run off somewhere," said Weasley instead of moving to do as told. "Could be she's just doing this to get attention or -"

He stopped abruptly, face reddening to puce when he felt the ferocity of all three glares upon him. He closed his gaping mouth and shot a sullen look at his best friend before leaving. Draco could feel the blood rushing to his head as his jaw clenched and he fought not to shoot a curse at the blood-traitor's back.

He turned instead to the only other intelligent person in the room and was instantly surprised to see the same look on her face as the Headmistress's office closed behind the redhead.

"Sorry about that, Professor," Potter muttered, pulling his bangs down over his forehead with a sharp tug. "He's been a little… upset with Hermione."

"As in, ignoring her?" Draco drawled, sneering at the nitwit. How could anyone be so thick to desert Hermione for _that_ piece of redhead filth?

He glared at him. "It's none of your business, Malfoy."

"I said enough!" shouted McGonagall, breaking them from their glaring contest. Her hands were shaking harder than ever.

Draco sighed, moving over to one of the chairs and sitting down, and running a tired hand over his hair. Hermione had been the only person willing to tolerate him at the castle he was basically imprisoned in and to not have her here to bounce ideas off of or just talk to was disconcerting. Sure, they had only just started being friendly toward one another but he didn't have to dumb down his thoughts like he did with most of his Slytherin friends - if he could still call them friends - and she had been a great source of comfort when both his parents were in prison and waiting for their trials.

To top it off, she had been _easy_ to talk to and, surprisingly, nonjudgmental.

He didn't know how he would survive staying in the ruin of Hogwarts without her to buffer the pang of loneliness and the hatred the rest of the inhabitants felt for him.

He could already feel her absence, which he would never admit to anyone on pain of Cruciartus.

Potter similarly settled down, sitting in the chair beside him in front of the Headmistress's desk and looking at her intently. _Probably waiting for a plan, the hero Gryffindor to the grave._

Draco inwardly scoffed at the thought. Of course McGonagall wouldn't have a plan. She couldn't even get over the fact Hermione had just disappeared. Not even a pop of Apparition or whoosh of displaced air. Just… gone. Draco was on much the same brainwave and felt his spirit diminish rapidly as he looked at the continued subtle tremor of her hands.

"Did you see Miss Granger at any other time today?" she asked, her voice shaking as much as her hands on 'other'.

Draco nodded. "We had breakfast together on the lawn. Lovegood came to collect her around ten, I think. They were both working in Ravenclaw Tower today and Granger mentioned something about going to collect her parents next weekend."

"She didn't tell _me_ that!" Potter interrupted with a fierce scowl. "Why would she tell you something like that?"

"So _personal_ , you mean?" Draco said instead of answering, gleeful that she hadn't told wonder boy.

"Boys," warned McGonagall, but her tone and her vehement glare alone suggested what she meant to say was something not as kosher for the ears of the innocent former Headmasters on the wall - that were all listening intently. One portrait even had an ear trumpet.

Potter settled for a glare at Draco's satisfied smirk.

"Now," McGonagall rifled through the papers on her desk, probably more to do with busying her hands rather than rearranging them and Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to scream at her to do something, but he knew she couldn't. They didn't even know what caused her to disappear, much less where she was and if she was in trouble.

"Now," she repeated, "the rest, Mr. Malfoy. I would appreciate no interruptions, Mr. Potter."

Even though Potter nodded next to him he knew it would be a cold day in hell before he would let Draco speak uninterrupted.

"Before lunchtime, she said she was going to her dorm for something and met me in the Great Hall where she seemed excited but didn't tell me what for and I didn't ask. Afterwards, I went to the seventh floor classrooms to work on the destroyed wing. Around three or so, I found her in the library. She was still preoccupied, pale, and looked like she had been in there for hours."

"What was she doing in the library?" asked Professor Snape, his portrait beside Dumbledore's behind McGonagall's desk. Every eye turned to him and he frowned in his luxurious chair he was painted with and swirled the red liquor in his right hand. Never-ending, he had told Draco once. A good life for a portrait. "Did she have her teachers manual or any Transfiguration texts?"

Draco straightened in his seat at his godfather's question, feeling confused as he remembered exactly what had happened that afternoon. "No. Just a book. When I came in, she was glaring at it and muttering something about the height of flames."

"And you saw the title, young Mister Malfoy?" asked Dumbledore in his somber voice from beside Snape's portrait.

"I -" He frowned, looking at his hands. "There wasn't one, I don't think. Just some sort of symbol."

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "A silver circle with four multi-coloured stars inside, I suppose?"

Draco's mouth dropped open. "Y-Yes! But how - how did _you_ know?"

"Will someone tell me what's going on and how we're going to get Hermione back?" Potter finally burst out, his face colouring with anger.

But Dumbledore just sat back in his chair, popping a candy into his mouth as everyone watched him, including the portraits and Snape with an almost fierce scowl. McGonagall frowned at him.

"Albus, we do not have time for games. Miss Granger may be in danger," she said, her voice identifying her inner struggle between waterproof flames or normal ones.

The former Headmaster merely smiled at them. Draco resisted the urge to hex the geezer.

"Tell me, Minerva, do you remember my niece? She came to Hogwarts during your seventh year."

Professor McGonagall's frown deepened at the change of topic but she answered anyway. "Yes. We became friends quickly, even though she was a Slyth -"

Her face paled and the quill in her hand dropped to the desk. Dumbledore looked quite happy at the turn of events.

"No. It… it couldn't be." Her voice shook more heavily than before and she appeared ten times older in those two seconds.

"Am I missing something or are we being ignored?" Draco drawled loudly after the Headmistress went into her own little world and they were left without an explanation for her strange behavior and still wondering how they were going to find Hermione.

"I have a niece," Dumbledore said simply, smiling at him. "A very bright girl. Ten Outstandings on her N.E.W.T.s and I believe her Transfiguration mark was half a percent over your Headmistress's, not to brag, Minerva dear."

'Minerva dear' looked positively sick.

"She would have made a fine Gryffindor." Dumbledore sighed, a faraway look in his eye. "She was a Slytherin, however. They took to her immediately, of course. I believe your grandfather, Mister Malfoy, even had a crush on the girl."

"Really?" he asked despite himself. That was interesting. He could have been related to Dumbledore if his grandmother wasn't a Kinsworth.

 _Oh, the places he could get to with Dumbledore as his great-uncle._

Dumbledore nodded, delighted. "Best friend's with your mother's father also. They were inseparable after she was Sorted. I daresay she would tell you that you take after him personality wise. You're both very collected and have a sharp humour."

"Not to interrupt this _fascinating_ walk down memory lane, but I believe we have a student - future professor - and war hero missing," Snape said, glaring at Dumbledore out of the side of his frame.

"Now, now, Severus," came Phineas Nigellus from the other side of the room. "I would like to hear more about this niece of Albus's. A Slytherin, you say?"

"WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH HERMIONE?" yelled Harry suddenly, making every one - including half the portraits - jump. He had stood up, pointing to Dumbledore with dire predictions of a portrait burning on his tongue.

"Mister Potter, if you will please calm down, I will tell you what this has to do with Miss Granger," McGonagall said, shocked out of her reverie and nostrils flaring at his impudence. She glared up at him, not rising from her chair, then waited until he sat down, still brooding like the fallen hero, before speaking again, though she still looked terribly shaken.

"Miss Dumbledore, Albus's niece, was a very close friend of mine even though she took a chance of becoming a stigma in her House for befriending the Gryffindor Head Girl. I remember Cygnus especially didn't want her seen with me." She shook her head as if shaking off cobwebs, and continued with a frown, staring at a bookshelf. "Like Albus said, she was very bright. We started studying for N.E.W.T.s the second day of school. I was amazed at her rounded knowledge. It seemed like she knew something about everything. We even started training to become Anamagi together."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes suddenly, pained. "Miss Dumbledore was also very pretty. I believe there were nine offers for her hand in marriage in the first term alone. We used to giggle over some of the contracts her father sent her."

Draco involuntarily looked over at Potter. Neither could imagine Professor McGonagall giggling.

Unless she were drunk.

"Of course, she sent them all back unsigned. She thought the ritual old-fashioned and didn't want to be 'shipped off like a cow to slaughter', as she put it. Or it may have been because of Riddle's influence -"

"Riddle?"

Professor McGonagall looked at Harry. Her eyes were sad but knowing. "Yes, Mister Potter. Tom Riddle. From the beginning, he took quite an interest in her. In retrospect, it was most likely because she was Albus's niece -"

"And Riddle wanted to use her for revenge," Harry finished darkly.

McGonagall nodded and was about to continue before Draco broke in.

"Who's Riddle?"

"Tom Riddle," said Potter without looking at him, staring at the Gryffindor sword on the wall, "is Lord Voldemort."

Draco blanched at the name but soldiered on. He had become used to Hermione saying it but still couldn't say it himself. "And he was-what?-interested in this girl?"

"Very much so," said McGonagall with a scowl at the memory. "At one point, he had her sitting at his right side at the Slytherin table. H-Miss Dumbledore was quite upset when she told me of its significance. She wasn't terribly fond of Riddle - a feeling we shared, but for different reasons."

"So she was one of the first Death Eaters," Potter said, that dark scowl still on his face as he looked up at Dumbledore's portrait.

"Oh, yes," he said jovially, to everyone's surprise. Even Snape looked shocked at his flippant tone and stared out of his portrait at Dumbledore as if he were running around naked singing show tunes.

 _Which Draco never, ever, wanted to visualize again, thank you very much._

"Your niece was a Death Eater, Albus?" said Snape, a frown of concentration slowly sliding over his usually inexpressive features. "Why did the Dark Lord never mention her? That would have been a valuable bargaining chip when you were alive."

"Maybe he was hiding her," suggested Draco, frowning and trying to remember all of his conversations with his father and everything that had been said when the Dark Lord stayed at the manor. _She had never been mentioned._ He would have remembered such a thing. The great Albus Dumbledore's niece being a Death Eater would have been a powerful tool during the war. It would have probably garnered a load of support after his death.

"Or maybe she defected," said Potter with a shrug.

"Or _maybe_ we could ask Albus what happened to his niece," Phineas Nigellus's snide tone carried over.

Everyone, sans McGonagall, looked at Dumbledore's portrait.

"She disappeared from Hogwarts right after N.E.W.T.s," he said, his airy tone belying the dark words he spoke. "Tom was understandably upset at the disappearance. He suspected foul play-as did Cygnus and Abraxas-whom she was with that night, but in the end it could not be verified."

In the silence of those words, something occurred to Draco.

"What does this have to do with Hermione?"


	2. Act Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I still don't own Harry Potter and will never receive royalties for it. Damn.

"Don't argue with the difficulties. The difficulties will argue for themselves." ****

**Winston Churchill**

* * *

Hermione Granger had a problem.

It was slightly bigger than any problem she had ever encountered before this day, and she could only believe one thing of her situation.

She was well and truly fucked.

Now, normally, she would never use that sort of language. She had always been a staunch believer that there were many better words to use, more descriptive and derogatory and - more importantly - readily accepted in polite society. On this day, however, she acknowledged the fact that there was no other word for the predicament she was faced with.

She was fucked.

Like, stepped-on-a-nail, underwear-stuck-in-skirt, forgot-to-write-four-foot-long-potions-scroll, cheated-on-your-wife-on-anniversary, and performing-fellatio-in-your-parents-bed-and-getting-caught; fucked.

She started tapping her thigh, trying to ignore the strangeness of the silver and gold ring on her finger. A normal thing for her to do when she was stressed and, in a situation like this, who could blame her for being so stressed that she jumped a mile off the bench when the boy beside her turned his head to look at her disheveled - not to mention stressed - state?

"So… you were home schooled?" he asked, obviously trying to come up with something for them to talk about while the rest of the Hogwarts filed into the Great Hall for the Sorting feast.

Where she would soon be Sorted.

Hermione nodded jerkily, watching the well-dressed students sitting and laughing and taking seats at their separate tables. All except her, of course. Not only was she not well-dressed - _Not for the Sorting feast, at least. It required uniforms and robes. Not a white sundress, heels and a black cloak that did not cover the back of her calves. She looked ready to go out for ice-cream, not be Sorted into the most prestigious Wizarding school in the world_ \- but she was sitting at the Slytherin table, a strange and new place that faintly smelt of blasphemy for the Queen of Gryffindor, as some still called her. She was also sitting next to the extremely polite and extremely charming and extremely _gorgeous_ Head Boy.

A Head Boy named Tom Riddle.

Dark black hair with not one strand out of place, blue eyes that drank a person in like a man dying of thirst, and perfectly pressed robes and uniform. _She had a sinking suspicion that even his green and silver tie was pressed, which was the definition of perfection in her book._ His laugh could ease any tense situation - a fact she did _not_ care for in the least, his smile was charming and full of shining white teeth that would make any daughter of dentists swoon, and his movements were graceful and dignified but still containing his youthful boyishness.

Tom Riddle was like a beautiful black leopard, full of desire and elegance and a nasty penchant for blood.

So, not only was she improperly dressed, sitting at the wrong table next to the up-and-coming-and-so-handsome-I-might-faint-teenage Dark Lord, she - Hermione Granger - was a time traveler.

Hermione Dumbledore nee Granger was fucked.

Fate was starting to bear a striking resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Hermione," Riddle said beside her, rolling her name around in melted butter before it passed his lips. He smiled at her. A small full of white teeth and - _evil_ , she reminded herself quickly - devastating charm. "From Shakespeare?"

Her jaw almost dropped. Seventeen years and only three people besides her parents recognized where her name came from.

 _Of course it was just her luck the Dark Lord was one of the ones to recognize it._

She smiled instead. "Yes. My mother was a fan of all the arts when she was alive. Although, if it was me, I would have never waited sixteen years for my jealous husband to come to his senses."

"Maybe that's why it wasn't you then," said Riddle with a small smile. "What would _you_ have done?"

"Plotted," Hermione said without thinking, feeling heat rush to her cheeks when he stared at her for a moment, mouth open, before laughing uproariously.

 _No wonder he was stunned. She was Dumbledore's niece! She wasn't supposed to be plotting! Dumbledore's did not plot!_

 _No,_ she thought ruefully, _they were omniscient and able to keep world-changing secrets to the grave._

 _Well, she could count for both of those in this time, so apparently she_ _**was** _ _a Dumbledore._

She pursed her lips.

 _The thought had possibilities._

But she couldn't focus on her glamorous, secret-filled Dumbledore lifestyle now. Not when she was sitting next to the most evil wizard in the world. She felt like her heart would come through her chest at any moment, with a loud pop and a bang and a little cheer from the parade - _Merlin! She needed to get a hold of herself._

Still, sitting so close to the wizard who would be the cause of so many deaths was terrifying and her calm, almost rational side applauded her ability to keep from hyperventilating and act like any normal teenager and not an enemy time traveler. She deserved an award. Order of Merlin, maybe.

"Professor Dippet said you would be in seventh year, correct?" the subject of her thoughts asked, a faint smile still on his lips.

 _Professor Dippet. The most naïve Headmaster in all of its rocky history._

She had thought Harry was exaggerating when he said the balding Headmaster acted like Tom Riddle was a prized student and not an overlord genius. She hadn't thought it possible that no one would notice him forming the Death Eaters right in Hogwarts. She hadn't thought it possible anyone could believe _Tom Riddle_ over the loveable half-giant Rubeus Hagrid - even if he did have a tumultuous love of dangerous creatures.

Apparently, they could, and Armando Dippet was the biggest perpetrator of them all. He valued paperwork over spending time with students, which was fortunate for her since Dumbledore himself had forged her transcripts and afterwards Dippet had shunted her off to spend time with her uncle before the train arrived with students and didn't look into her nervous state too much. It was unfortunate for innocent people like Hagrid, however, that when Dippet _did_ come up for air from his paperwork that his eye would only see the shining star Tom Riddle.

Affectionately known as the Dark Lord.

Hermione nodded again, not wanting to talk too much to Riddle and risk being caught in a lie of some sort or misspeaking about her origins. It wouldn't do to hand herself to him on a platter so he could undo the mistakes he had made that led to his downfall in the future. She would make polite chatter with him before being Sorted into Gryffindor where she would then start trying to get back home - to her rightful time - before she made any lasting marks on history and changed the course of the future.

"I didn't know Professor Dumbledore had family so young," Riddle said, his voice contemplative as he looked at her and interrupted her admittedly depressing thoughts.

"I'm the family secret," Hermione said, feeling her throat constrict as she tried to sound airy and vague and not like she was considering running out of the Great Hall screaming. "Like the crazy aunt in the attic."

 _Perfect, Hermione. It is so_ _**very** _ _nice to joke about the dead. Even if it was unintentional._

Thankfully, Riddle took it as it was meant to be and laughed.

 _There's still the option of running before your big mouth screws anything else up._

 _Not a chance_ , she thought dismally as a pack of seventh and six years came to sit around them at the Slytherin table, laughing and greeting Riddle after the summer absence and shooting her furtive, questioning looks that did not make her self-consciousness ease at all.

 _The founding blocks of the generations of pureblood families that joined the Dark Lord._

Lestrange. Black. Malfoy. Avery. Nott. Crabbe. Goyle. Wilkes.

 _How nice._

She didn't have the faces to put to their names - though the boy grinning at her from across the table was a giveaway with his almost silver blonde hair. If only he would stop looking at the small amount of cleavage showing under the ties of her cloak.

"Who're you?" Malfoy asked and the thought that Draco would have been more polite almost rocked her to the core. _He_ certainly wouldn't be caught talking to her breasts.

"This is Hermione Dumbledore, niece of Professor Dumbledore," said the Slytherin Head Boy before she could. The effect around them was immediate and the small group - made mostly of wizards - performed an entertaining mimicry of a school of guppies.

 _At least it got Malfoy's eyes away from her breasts._

"She's to be Sorted into her seventh year after the first years," continued Riddle, either unaware of the shock of his friends or ignoring it.

"I suppose you'll be in Gryffindor then, eh?" said Malfoy, recovering first. He smiled pleasantly at her before holding out his hand over the table, golden plates empty for now. "Abraxas Malfoy, at your service."

 _At least he had some manners,_ she thought as she shook his hand. _Or he was lulling her into a false sense of security._

 _Either way, dealing with his eyes attached to her chest was better than sitting next to the proper and charming Riddle._

"I don't know," she replied to his assumption as she remembered her new family tree that Dumbledore had made her memorize that morning. "A small minority of my family were Ravenclaws, but we don't speak about them much."

Surprisingly, the small group surrounding Riddle laughed at her nervous attempt at humour and Malfoy nudged the tall boy beside him, grinning like a fiend. The boy had long black hair that fell to his shoulders and he glared at Malfoy with a hint of exasperation before looking at her with familiar grey eyes.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I am Orion Black, of the most noble and ancient house of Black. A sixth year."

 _Now_ she knew where Sirius had gotten his fine cheekbones, light gray eyes, and hatred of his family. Even listening to Orion Black's pompous voice made her insides cringe.

"A pleasure," she nodded, hiding a grimace.

"And I'm his brother, Cygnus Black, and a fellow seventh year," said the similarly tall boy sitting next to her in a far more friendlier tone in which his eyes did not once stray to her breasts. His smile was pleasant and not condescending like his cousin's and she wondered what this altogether creepy-by-being-so-nice-introduction-from-the-first-Death-Eaters would be like if she let it slip she was a Mudblood.

And before the other wizards that surrounded the up-and-coming Dark Lord could introduce themselves or she could tell them her delightful secret, the first years came into the Great Hall and the excited chattering of the tables stopped as abruptly as a fire smothered with a wet blanket.

Hermione didn't know why she had expected better of the Slytherins than her Gryffindors, but she was surprised and a little nostalgic when they kept whispering and muttering and further down the table she could see two girls giggling even as the witch - Professor Merrythought - called out the first year's names from the long scroll in front of her and the shaking and scared and, in one extreme case, crying new first years placed the Sorting Hat on their heads.

"So how come you're here now?" whispered Cygnus, dark eyes as inquisitive as Abraxas, Riddle and the rest of the wolf pack's.

"Uncle Albus and my father do not get along very well," she whispered back, her eyes on the first years but her body and mind torn on the question and her already formed answer. "He - my father - doesn't approve of some of my uncle's methods and didn't want me unduly influenced by being under his tutelage. I'm only here now because I'm of legal age."

 _I'm only here now because I was uncommonly stupid and used Dark magic._

 _I'm only here now because I thought a book could never hurt me when I've helped defeat a Dark Lord._

 _I'm only here now because luck has a grudge._

 _I'm only here now because I thought I was better than everyone else and wouldn't seek out someone smarter, worthier, better, to help unlock the book's words._

The shame and remorse part was easy enough to understand. Disappointment with herself was something quite new, and it proved to be a very large, very jagged pill to swallow. The fact was - and she had come to terms with this over the past few hours - that she had always thought rather highly of herself before the whole sordid incident occurred.

It was a real bubble-buster to discover that she, Hermione Granger, was just as normal as everyone else.

 _Make that Hermione Dumbledore._

The slow clapping for the last student Sorted - "Hufflepuff!" - stopped as Headmaster Dippet stood up at the high table, smiling at all of them proudly, his balding head shining in the light from the candles floating above them all.

"This year, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry welcomes a very special new student."

"Does anyone else not like how he says special?" she muttered to herself, glaring at the Headmaster. Riddle smiled briefly at her and Cygnus coughed into his hand. The rest of the Great Hall started looking for this new and special student, the Slytherins further along the table helping their way as they pointed and whispered and she felt like hiding.

However, she had a faint notion that Tom Riddle wouldn't take kindly to being used as a shield.

"She is Professor Dumbledore's niece and will hopefully take to Hogwarts just as it has to her illustrious family. Please welcome, Miss Hermione Dumbledore!"

 _The world has gone very, very mad,_ she thought in a detached state as she stood up from the Slytherin table to the many stares, whistles, catcalls and waves from hundreds of students.

 _How come she never noticed how many seats could be filled in the Great Hall?_

 _Did she come at the_ _**only** _ _time Hogwarts was filled to capacity?_

 _Weren't this many people in one room a fire hazard?_

A bead of sweat slowly slid down her back, as if trying to escape the many eyes upon it.

She patted her cloak pocket nervously as she made her way to the front of the Great Hall, her stomach unclenching a little when she felt her small, beaded purse. Public speaking had never been her forte - it was Harry's job to be out front, not hers, and she liked it that way - and apparently public walking wasn't a skill she possessed in great abundance either.

She could feel their eyes on her clothes, the waggling of brows and whispers and wolf calls at her show of leg making her face heat up and her forced smile tighten even further until she looked more like a pumpkin carved face than a human.

Professor Merrythought, a graying witch with crinkles around her blue eyes, smiled at her as she settled on the stool. Thankfully, her feet touched the ground. She didn't know how red she could blush, and she didn't particularly want to find out with hundreds of eyes on her like vultures circling carrion.

The witch brought the hat to her head almost painfully slow. So slow, Hermione was tempted to rip it from her and jam it down over her curls, but as soon as the tearing and worn fringe of the hat touched a silky strand of out of place hair, it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione Dumbledore's only thought as she was waved back over to the seat between Cygnus Black and Tom Riddle was the always frank and reliable Murphy's Law.

 _If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway._

She was fucked.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle raised his eyebrows at Abraxas as the smooth, tanned legs of the newest and most interesting Slytherin witch disappeared down the stairs to the girls' dormitories.

"This will be a most interesting year," he murmured, a slow smile spreading on his lips.

* * *

" _Hermione a_ _ **Slytherin**_ _?"_

Harry blinked a few times, stunned by his own startled yell.

Draco rubbed his right ear, muttering something under his breath containing the words _bloody_ , _Gryffindor_ , _eardrums_.

"I'm afraid so," said McGonagall, her tone signifying how much it had stunned her to know Hermione Granger and Hermione _Dumbledore_ were one in the same.

"You make it sound like some sort of debilitating disease." Draco tried to repress his glare at the Headmistress but couldn't contain all of his nonverbal defense of his House.

"I think Miss Granger would be an excellent Slytherin."

Even Albus Dumbledore gaped at the speaker.

Severus Snape.

The bat of the dungeons stared back at them all stonily, as much as his black pigment eyes could, at least. When they said nothing - Dumbledore popped a candy into his mouth to cover his speechlessness - Snape sighed, looking at them as if they were still first year dunderheads. Or worse. Longbottom.

"Shall I explain it for you all?"

Draco nodded dumbly, peripherally noticing Potter and McGonagall doing the same.

Snape rolled his water-coloured eyes. "Very well. After the Umbridge incident -"

"Affectionately known as 'Getting what she deserved'," muttered McGonagall, nostrils flaring at just the mention of her name. Draco choked back a laugh.

"- I was forced to reconsider my thoughts about the brains of the Golden Trio."

"Hey! I have brains, too!"

Draco and Snape glared for the lie, the others, for interrupting. Phineas Nigellus snickered.

"Only a few short days before my death" - Draco cringed at the reminder - "I learned that Miss Granger didn't fit the mold of what I considered to be the typical Gryffindor. She was an interesting mix of the strongest traits of all the four Houses have to offer. Intelligent as a Ravenclaw - more so really. That House has been on a steep decline in terms of quality for the last couple decades; as loyal as a Hufflepuff - even if said loyalty was wasted on those who didn't have the mental capacity to -"

"Severus!"

Draco could only splutter as Potter shot him a glare for laughing outright. His laughter died when McGonagall shot him a similar glare.

Phineas Nigellus snickered louder than ever.

"She's stubborn to the point of bravery, so I can't fault the Sorting Hat for placing her in Gryffindor."

Draco nodded sharply at that. Give Granger an idea and she was like a saber-tooth tiger. All sharp teeth and good causes and sharp teeth. Saber-toothed Granger.

 _That was an interesting thought._

Draco pushed the strange - and distracting - thought out of his mind and refocused on Snape.

"- a thought that amazed me time and time again, though, was that out of all the Houses, she practically embodied what Slytherins were supposed to be."

"But she's a Muggleborn!" Potter cried, outraged. "Your lot don't accept any of _unpure_ origins," he sneered. Draco was frankly getting tired of the glares aimed at his person. He felt violated.

"Let us listen to what Severus has to say," came Dumbledore's dulcet tone.

Snape nodded his thanks to Dumbledore, and took a sip of his liquor before continuing.

"She is cunning, ambitious, and has a broad streak of moral ambiguity that she pulls out at any time she thinks the ethics she preaches just aren't going to work. She is not a Pureblood, though, nor a half-blood, and the Sorting Hat must have seen that she would only stand for so much bullying from the members of her own House." Snape smirked, his eyes solely on Draco. "If it had placed her in Slytherin, a full generation of the society's up and coming social elite would have likely been injured badly enough that they wouldn't have been able to produce another generation of Purebloods to take their place."

Draco Malfoy had the dual unpleasant sensation of his balls shriveling up with every portrait and person's eyes on him.

"Huh." Potter frowned at him, but not, as he contemplated - _Merlin! really contemplated_ \- what Draco's godfather had said.

 _He looks kind of sick, actually. Maybe his brain was short-circuiting._

He almost smiled at the thought.

"Okay…" Potter finally said, eyebrows still furrowed and frown etched on face. He nodded, as if to reaffirm something to himself, as he faced Snape's portrait again. "You've missed something, though. Sir," he added hastily when he saw the portrait's eyes narrow. "If you're right, and the only reason the Sorting Hat didn't place her in Slytherin was because she'd have cursed Malfoy and the rest, _why_ did it place her in Slytherin this time… or last time?"

Draco frowned. Not only for Potter's mention of Hermione cursing him, but because the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-His-Life-More-Miserable-Than-It-Already-Was made a rather good point.

 _Maybe he had latched onto some of Granger's brains after all._

 _Blast._

"She'd probably be _more_ tempted to curse them all with Lord Voldemort being Head Boy," Potter continued. "And Professor Dumbledore said the hat barely touched her before Sorting her."

"For that matter, Professor Dumbledore also said she was a Death Eater," Draco put in, not wanting all the glory to be laid on Potter's head. Again. Plus, it bothered him.

 _Hermione Granger, brains of the Golden Trio, Queen of Gryffindor and defender of house elves, a_ _**Death Eater**_ _?_

He couldn't get his mind around the fact.

The two sides were like night and day, except even more different.

Dumbledore's eyes shone behind half-moon spectacles. "Well, that is a curious thing…"

* * *

AN: Supreme thanks to scifichick774 over at LJ. Snape's thoughts on Hermione being a Slytherin were ganked from her LM/HG story Ball and Chain at community./krisfic/. I'm telling everyone now to go and read _all_ her work, because she has a brilliant way with words and is a very kind person to let a fanfic stalker like me use her work in my own. Thanks again!

The 'fucked' quote was written from memory from either a book I read a long, long time ago, or a fanfiction that stuck in my mind. If I ever remember the author, I'll post the necessary credit here. (Or if someone could point me to the author? (hint hint) Any and all mistakes are mine, and mine only.


	3. Act Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters, action figures, broom sticks, schools, pubs, bookshops, or banks. I do own this plot, but some days I wonder...

"The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made. **"**

 **Groucho Marx**

* * *

"Sherbet lemon?"

She glared petulantly and took one anyway.

"I cannot help but wonder where you got your information, Miss Granger," said Albus Dumbledore, Future Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His blue eyes peered over half-moon spectacles, resting at the end of his twice-broken nose. He smiled suddenly. "My mistake. I meant Miss Dumbledore."

"I still think I should have stayed with my own name," she grumbled, not feeling at all amiable toward the auburn haired wizard. Who knew Dumbledore was a redhead? "Considering I was Sorted into a House that hates you."

"Not what you hoped for, Miss Dumbledore?" he asked instead of commenting on her repeated notion that she would attract too much attention for a time traveler with his famous last name. Her repeating thoughts were starting to annoy even her, so she didn't grudge him the fact.

"Not what I _expected_ , sir." Hermione sighed, closing her eyes and rolling the sherbet lemon in her mouth. "I'm not the typical poster-girl for blood purity. I'm more like the _anti_ -Slytherin. I'm the proverbial Slytherin kryptonite."

It was a bleak thought, mostly because she was settled in a House where the current members loved a spot of torture with their tea and biscuits and she was on a thin rope already, being Dumbledore's niece. It made her long for the bigoted, eleven-year-old version of Draco Malfoy, which she never thought she would do.

 _She was sure her brain would explode just thinking about the fact._

"I'm a _bloody_ Gryffindor!" she burst suddenly, hands waving frantically, her brown eyes half-crazed in the face of the emotions churning in her gut and mind and heart. "The Hat considered me a Ravenclaw for a mere _half a second_ before screaming Gryffindor! This —" She waved her hand vaguely, anger and fear and shock and despair and every other senseless emotion making her usual eloquence disappear. "— _travesty_ is just a cruel, cosmic joke because Fate hates me! _Hates_ me," she growled darkly, eyes blazing.

The fire went out of her eyes just as fast as it had appeared and her head collapsed into her hands, hair going just as limp and lifeless as the body it was attached to. But the tears that would normally come didn't, and her eyes stayed irritatingly dry behind fatigued lids.

"I'm just… tired, sir," she said, her muffled voice heavy with too many responsibilities. "Sorry."

"I understand, Miss Dumbledore," Professor Dumbledore said cautiously from behind his desk. Fawkes, who had shuffled nervously when she ranted and raved, trilled and Hermione felt her heart lift a fraction at the long-missed sound of the phoenix.

She sat up at the song, shooting Fawkes a thankful smile.

"And you know I cannot discuss _how_ I know the things I do," Hermione replied, trying to make her voice forceful but it still came out soft when remembering her rash act of the day before. "I can only say I became quite… close to you in what would have been my seventh year, if I had went back and I…" She closed her eyes, her eloquence deserting her once more. "… learned a great deal of your past."

Still, it hadn't been kind to use his dead sister, friendship with Grindewald, and her knowledge of the whereabouts of the Elder Wand as a way to prove she was from the future. She knew the anger in his eyes at the mention of Ariana would haunt her to the grave. She wouldn't have done it normally, of course, but had been desperate when she met him in the corridor of Hogwarts as she panicked at the pristine state of the school that didn't look as if Death Eaters had stormed it a few months before.

She had panicked, and it resulted with her risking everything as she needed _him_ — this one person to ground her to the reality of the situation — to believe her not as a kook, but as a real time traveler from the future.

His sadness rang true in every part of his being, much like it had in his brother's the night of the Final Battle when he had told them about Ariana's unfortunate death. The reminder had kept her up most of the night almost as much as trying to get back home.

Her eyes went to the floor, hands folded demurely in her lap. "I _am_ sorry, sir. I was panicked and couldn't think of another way that would make you believe my assertions."

"Yes, you could have been more tactful."

Her eyes shot up, amazed, heart beating faster. Would he throw her out? Berate her? Yell, scream at her for bringing up something he tried so hard to get over?

 _Wouldn't she do that in the same situation?_

But Albus Dumbledore's eyes were kind, his auburn beard — streaked with strands of bright silver gray — lifted as he smiled at her. No hate. No anger. No reproach.

And in that moment, Hermione Granger remembered why he was known as the greatest wizard in the world. It wasn't power — though there was a lot to be found. It wasn't his blood. It was his ability to forgive others. To believe others at their worst, even as they held their wand against him. To believe in the good of all people, even as he was defenseless on top of a tower.

She remembered how Harry had described Malfoy that night. Still wanting, still _needing_ that acknowledgement of his professors, even if it was a dying man applauding his success at getting Death Eaters into the school. How he had talked to Malfoy, encouraging him to take the right steps to ensure his soul wasn't damaged like Voldemort's. How he had vowed to protect Malfoy and his mother with all the force and power of the Order of the Phoenix, even though Malfoy had the wand and he didn't.

 _How Malfoy had hesitated, even lowered his wand in the face of such forgiveness._

 _That_ was why Albus Dumbledore was a great wizard. To be able to talk his would-be murderer out of his plans, not out of his own safety and life, but out of love and forgiveness and the untainted soul of his killer.

 _He was still a manipulative bastard, though,_ she remembered and sat straighter in the chair in front of his large desk.

"But I believe we have more pressing concerns than tactless comments, don't you agree?" he asked, that sometimes infuriating smile on his face that didn't infuriate her at all — at the moment, at least. "Did you make another attempt to use the book once in your dormitory?"

Hermione nodded, repressing a loud sigh. Maybe she should have done that stupid dance Luna was doing for luck the last half-moon, because somewhere, she must have really screwed herself.

She had spent the whole night redoing her actions of that day, everything from the blood donation, the runes, commanding it to take her back, to screaming at it in the charmed silence of her four-poster, but nothing had happened. It had just sat there, mocking her with its totally innocuous and innocent cover even though she really knew it was malicious and up to no good. Apparently, the book held a grudge, and all she got for her trouble were sleep-deprived eyes and sickly skin and an overabundance of restless energy.

"Hermione." Dumbledore voice snapped her out of her thoughts and she looked up at him. He folded his arms on his desk, and the serious stare wasn't totally unexpected. She braced herself to hear how foolish she had been, messing with unknown magic just for a little glory.

But it didn't come.

"I don't proclaim to know much about time travel," he started, a small tilt to his lips before they set themselves back in a grim line, "but I _do_ know that wasting yourself away to get back to the 90's will bring nothing but trouble and heartbreak." He raised his hand, stilling the retort on the edge of her tongue. "I suggest — very heavily — that you devote time on the weekends to try to get back to your time. You said yourself that you didn't go to Hogwarts for your seventh year and never sat for the N.E.W.T.s. Obviously, this is a chance that you wouldn't have been given before the book brought you here."

Hermione frowned, more thoughtful than angry. "So you're saying I should… just forget about the many problems surrounding my existence in the 1940's and concentrate on my studies?"

Professor Dumbledore chuckled, a smile on his face even as he shook his head. "Oh, no, dear girl. Not at all. I am merely saying that this is a chance to further your education, that will hopefully further your journey back to your time."

"Oh."

"And you will do yourself no good if you keep working yourself into exhaustion. It will only hinder your objective to be tired and cranky — not that I'm faulting you," he added, his blue eyes merry.

"I suppose…" she said, brows furrowed.

"I know you were forced into this situation," he continued, "and that you would have never chosen to come here, to a place where you could change the timeline so drastically. But, Miss Dumbledore," she almost looked away at the kindness and bleak truth in his blue eyes, "I also believe your best chance at coping with this situation would be to start acclimating yourself to the role of Slytherin pureblood, work with your House, and — dare I say it — make a life here."

* * *

Hermione walked back to the Slytherin dungeons in a detached daze. She felt like she had somehow lost sight of her goal, and had an awful feeling she had just been manipulated by a master. She had the even more awful feeling that it was true. The realization burned in her gut as the sound of her lone footsteps echoed in the dungeon corridors. It was lucky she had been into the Slytherin common room before — an expedition with Malfoy — or else she was sure she would have never noticed the wall that was slightly darker than the rest of the dungeons.

"Sincerus."

The off-coloured wall opened, not one sound emitting from it when she stepped through or when it closed behind her, leaving her in the creepiest common room that screamed "Slytherin!" and "Blood purity!" and "This is where Voldemort does his Arithmancy homework!".

A comforting thought, to be sure.

"You look like shite."

Hermione jumped, looking around the green-tinted common room for the source. She finally spotted Cygnus Black lounging on a black fainting couch in a dark corner, leg dangling off the side carelessly.

"Flattering, coming from you," she said, almost absently as she walked to the stairs leading down to the girls' dormitories. She was used to such comments over the years. They hardly ever bothered her anymore.

"Hey, Hermione." She paused by the doorway and looked back at his hesitant words, surprised to see the almost pitying expression on his face before he hid it.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you put some glamour charms on to hide those bags of yours and we go get first picks at breakfast?"

Hermione almost choked on the suddenness. She had thought all the Slytherins would hate her, from the expressions she had received from everyone but Riddle's little group. She had felt the enmity from the rest of the House — _her_ House — on the way to the common room the night before, and knew this would be a nasty situation. But Cygnus — the warmth she could detect in his eyes, along with the pity — made her think the situation with her House wasn't all that hopeless.

It was just the sort of thing she needed to 'work with' her House and become the Slytherin pureblood Dumbledore wanted her to be.

She smiled, hesitant and fleeting. "That would be nice. Let me just…"

Cygnus smiled back, smug and haughty, and she had the insane urge to pat his head. "I'll wait."

* * *

"So what were you doing out of the common room so early?"

The magical ceiling above showed the weather to be filled with grey clouds that tinted the Great Hall with dim light. Only the equally dim sunlight coming through the windows made the need for candles superfluous.

Hermione thought back to her conversation with Dumbledore as she buttered a piece of toast. "I had to have a chat with Uncle Albus. What were _you_ doing awake so early?"

The Great Hall was empty except for a few professors and a small group of Ravenclaw overachievers with their heads buried in their schoolbooks so no one noticed the reproving look Cygnus gave her. It looked like it belonged more on Molly Weasley's face as she admonished the twins than the Slytherin pureblood's at the breakfast table.

"First rule of Slytherin — never give specific details unless you have to." His lips quirked when she stared at him, toast halfway to her open mouth. "Look," he leaned toward her after a pause where they stared at each other, "you were in a precarious position as soon as you were Sorted because of your Uncle and his open distaste for Slytherins. It can go either way at this point. I'm just trying to help."

"Has anyone considered that I am not Albus Dumbledore?" she asked, sarcasm weighing her voice down like an award-winning bodybuilder.

Cygnus rolled his eyes, and wisely stayed silent.

She finally bit into her toast, considering him calmly as she chewed. She put her toast down, picked up her glass, and took a small sip of her milk, all the while watching Cygnus watch her. It was oddly satisfying to see him squirm a little.

"And what price does your services require?"

An indignant sniff worthy of Pansy Parkinson escaped his nose, and she stifled a grin at the thought of comparing the tall, dark and handsome Cygnus to the pug-faced cow Parkinson.

"Nothing, of course," he answered. His eyes flashed with humor as he regarded her attempt at hiding her scoff. "But at least you know that everything — _everything_ — has a price in Slytherin, be it gold or future services or connections. Can you tell what I want?"

Hermione looked away, thinking the question over. It wasn't hard to think through everything the Slytherin could possibly want or need from her, but it was hard because she knew not one thing about Cygnus Black except he was Draco Malfoy's grandfather on his mother's side and he was the father of Bellatrix Lestrange.

The last thought brought her hand to her neck, where a small white scar that couldn't be healed magically stood in contrast to her dark, olive skin.

"You're not looking for a pureblood wife — as most marriage contracts are signed at sixteen — and I know you're not in want of a girlfriend, seeing as I saw two pretty sixth years simpering after you last night. That rules out those two." She spun the silver and gold ring around her finger, relishing the challenge of figuring out his motives. "The Black name is prestigious, and seeing as you're friends with Riddle, Malfoy, Wilkes, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Avery and Lestrange, I believe you have many connections and are not in need of any as of now. Of course, seeing as how many Dark connotations are contributed to not only your family but most of theirs as well, you might be in need of a different sort of connection. I doubt it however."

The look in his eye was priceless, and she filed it away for another time to giggle over as she set to finding out his motives.

"You don't know whether I'm academically gifted or not, so I'm forced to conclude that homework and assignment exchanges are out of the question — seeing as how I don't believe you would take the chance with your marks." Cygnus nodded slowly, eyeing her warily as he chewed a piece of sausage.

"You don't need nor want gold, not only because Blacks never borrow unless from other Blacks, but because your shoes are shined to the highest quality and the leather looks like smooth dragonhide — Iron Belly, maybe — and the potion that shines shoes to that degree takes eight months, and is only used in upper-class shoe shops."

"You're joking!" he exclaimed loudly, making the dishes rattle as he slammed his goblet on the table. The professors looked up, the Ravenclaws did not.

"No," Hermione replied primly. Cygnus still looked flabbergasted.

"How did you know what my shoes are made of?" he asked, voice rising a little.

She rolled her eyes, repressing a sigh. Being sleep-deprived gave her a headache and she could already feel one coming on behind her eyes. She would have to go to the Infirmary after breakfast for a potion.

"It isn't exactly a secret that your ancestor Phineas Nigellus was the first wizard to make a standing account with the Romanians so he could have first pick of the dragonhide they sold — before it went on the market, mind. As for knowing what kind of dragon, it was a guess, seeing as how durable their hides are and the hard bottom of the shoe which were very loud in the corridors. I don't know how you sneak around in them."

 _Plus Fred was wearing his when he died._

"I think I may have underestimated you," he muttered, looking at her as if she just proclaimed she glowed in the dark and asked if he would like a demonstration.

"Most do," she allowed graciously, tipping her head. "Since I've ruled out all of the aforementioned motives, I'll have to say you want a female acquaintance who isn't taken by Malfoy's charms because you think it's terribly annoying as shown with your distaste of Parkinson last night. But I think you mainly offered your help because you felt sorry for me this morning."

"Hmm. Interesting theory," Cygnus said, not looking at her as he piled seconds on his plate. She noted how he ignored her mention of an emotion other than smugness or superiority. It reminded her of someone, but she couldn't think who.

 _And it was just like a bloody Slytherin to not tell her if she was right or not. Sod._

"That observant personality will get you far. Maybe you are a Slytherin."

"Well, she's not a bloody Hufflepuff," said a groused voice from behind them. She turned halfway to see Abraxas Malfoy, tie askew and hair artfully disheveled, smiling sleepily down at her. "Good morning, Hermione, Cygnus. Getting an early start, are you?"

"As are you it seems," Cygnus said dryly as Abraxas sat down on her other side.

"Wanting her all to yourself, yeah?" he asked, with a lascivious wink at her. She scoffed into her cereal.

"The ego, it burns," Cygnus muttered, but she doubted Malfoy heard as he was busy piling a mountain of bacon onto his plate.

 _His appetite would make Ron queasy._

The thought sobered her. She had been so busy showing off to Cygnus — of course it could only be considered showing off; she had wanted him to see she wasn't as naïve as he thought — that she had forgotten all about her own friends and what she had left behind. Even if Ron wasn't her friend, she still missed the feeling of camaraderie with Luna Lovegood and her talks with Malfoy at breakfast and lunch and her evening English lessons to Grawp and — _Merlin!_ — studying for her teacher's certification. What would they do without her? Who would help restore Ravenclaw tower with Luna? Who would admonish Malfoy for flirting with the easily flustered Professor Sinistra? Would Hagrid be able to follow her teaching syllabus? How would she pass her tests if she couldn't study?

 _How would_ _**she** _ _live without them?_

"What are you two doing up so early anyway?" Malfoy asked, elbow bumping hers playfully. _Merlin, he was a flirt._

"Cygnus was showing me the ways of the world," Hermione said, smirking at the wizard in question as he rolled his eyes. "I'm sorely lacking in my education, it seems."

"You know, _I_ would be a far better teacher in that area," Malfoy said, leaning perilously close and licking his lips obscenely.

"Oh, look! It's a Gryffindor you haven't shagged!"

"Where?"

Situation diverted, Hermione smiled at Cygnus in gratitude.

Soon, the other Slytherins and students came trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast and Malfoy was forced out of his search for the elusive un-shagged Gryffindor as the seats around them filled and he was distracted by an almost mirror image of Pansy Parkinson as she came strutting to the table. The difference between the two was her distinct lack of a pug nose. It didn't make her snooty appearance softer, however.

She came to stop behind Hermione, and she could almost feel the cool dislike wafting off the witch in waves.

"Abraxas," said Parkinson unnecessarily, as Abraxas had already turned to give her middle a half-hug. The high-pitched giggle grated on her nerves, but Hermione kept spooning cereal into her mouth determinedly. The thought that Draco Malfoy had dated Pansy Parkinson almost made her sick, seeing as his grandfather was obviously dating — or shagging — her relative. The only thing that comforted her _thou shall not be related to your boyfriend_ belief was that she knew Abraxas Malfoy would marry a Kinsworth.

"Stop that, you bad boy!"

She caught Randall Wilkes' eye across the table, surprised to find him smirking at her. Not to mention wary. He didn't look as particularly friendly as Cygnus had.

"Have you met Hermione yet, luv?" Abraxas nudged her foot with his, and she turned slightly, polite smile plastered on her face. He grinned at her and motioned to the witch beside him as if she was blind and deaf — and probably dumb. "This, Hermione, is the Ambresia Parkinson. Amb, this is Hermione."

Almost as if he had read the derogatory thought right out of her mind, on the other side of her, she felt someone dig their hard shoe into her toes and she gritted her teeth to stop the yelp that sprung to her throat. "You have a very pretty name," she told Ambresia demurely, eyes watering a little as she contemplated whether it would be wiser to hex Cygnus at the table or later in the corridor.

Ambresia, however jealous she was that Abraxas had sat next to her, smiled widely at Hermione's compliment. "Thank you! A little word play on ambrosia, actually."

Hermione didn't know whether it constituted being called a wordplay, but she was certain it was the most ridiculous name she had ever heard, and all she could respond with was, "Ah. Witty."

Cygnus made a choking sound into his goblet as she turned back to her breakfast and Ambresia started droning about her new sleeking potion that had made her hair shine like some witch's on the cover of _Witch Weekly._

"Those two deserve each other," Cygnus muttered as Abraxas, in turn, told Ambresia about his new Comet 7 broomstick and that it went approximately 48 point 9 miles per hour.

"Do you always assault witches at the breakfast table?" Hermione asked under her breath, eyes still a little watery from the pain of the dragonhide shoe getting intimate with her poor — now damaged — toes.

He mulled the question over, his face more thoughtful than it should have been for the question. She was dimly aware of Randall watching the interaction between them with a little too much zeal.

"No, not always," he finally answered. "Sometimes at lunch and dinner too."

"Well, next time you decide to try and break my toes, be sure to tell me so I'll have proper defense."

"I'll make a point of it."

Hermione made a disbelieving noise in the back of her throat and turned back to her horribly neglected cereal. It was getting quite impatient with her and starting to become soggy.

"Oy! Budge up!"

She looked up at Randall's voice — which was louder than she thought possible for that time of the morning — and saw him motioning Abraxas over so there was space between them. Surprisingly — or not so surprisingly, if she thought about it — he obliged and moved his plate and goblet further down the table, giving her a sad, puppy-dog sort of smile.

And Tom Riddle sat in his place, clean goblet and plate appearing.

She immediately knew she loathed Randall Wilkes and wished the fires of a thousand hells upon his dirty blond head and annoying smirk. But before she could do more than look at Randall Wilkes, Cygnus nudged her before digging his foot back into her toes.

She felt them give a crack of protest, or maybe it was just them breaking.

"Good morning, Hermione," Tom Riddle, bringer of broken toes and soggy cereal, said. His hair was obnoxiously perfect, just like the rest of him, and her sinking suspicion from the night before that he ironed his ties was proved true.

 _Hermione Dumbledore does not drool. Especially over Dark Lords._

 _And their perfectly ironed ties._

"Riddle," she smiled back as Cygnus yelped beside her.

Riddle looked over her — he was almost a head taller than her — at Cygnus. "You okay, Cy?"

Cygnus nodded rapidly, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Fine."

It came out as little more than a squeak.

Hermione thought that, with time, she could have the patented Slytherin smirk down to an art form.

"That hurt, you know," Cygnus whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear.

"I know. But I _did_ warn you."

He leaned back, looking outraged. "You did not! You said you would defend yourself. _Not_ throw a Stinging Hex at my…"

He suddenly realized he was talking quite loudly, and his lips pursed tightly as he glared at her. She could feel Riddle's still attention on them, even though he was seemingly talking to Abraxas about the chances of the Slytherins winning the House Cup.

"It's called a preventative first strike," she said in her best prim tone, giving up on her cereal. She could see Professor Slughorn coming down the table and handing out schedules. "Which is negated by the fact you've tried _twice_ to break my foot in the last hour. So really, it could be considered either a late defense or a preventative first strike. Either way, my toes have been avenged."

They were still bickering as they went to their first class — Arithmancy — together, and both noticed the way Tom Riddle kept close to them in the corridors.

Neither commented.

* * *

 _Need a tour guide, Hermione? I'd be_ _ more _ _than happy to be the first to show you the sights._

 _(I would be the first, right?)_

 _-A._

Hermione glared at the letter, wishing it would burst into flames along with its writer. Her Malfoy would be horrified at his salacious grandfather consorting — or trying to consort — with a Muggleborn. _And how wrong was it to think about Draco Malfoy as_ _ **her**_ _Malfoy?_

She shook her head at the disturbing thought and the image that rose with it, sliding the note from Abraxas under her Arithmancy textbook. First class of the day, and he was already trying to distract her. How very Malfoy of him.

 _And he wasn't even being subtle about it! A fine Slytherin model to be sure. No wonder Draco had all the subtlety of a brick — he inherited it!_

When Professor Dorland turned around to face the other side of the room, she imitated a glacier and sent the irritating prat a glare.

He smirked.

From the seat beside him, Riddle raised an eyebrow inquiringly at her.

She sighed in defeat. Her morning was not looking to be a happy one.

 _Somehow, I don't believe Malfoy's interest in my virginity is conducive to Arithmancy. It may be more of a Care of Magical Creatures topic, seeing as he is a rare species of flirt I have ever had the displeasure to meet. I caution to give a wide berth and in case of contact — handle with dragonhide gloves._

 _-H._

She tapped the hastily torn scrap of parchment under her desk, and it folded itself into an arrow. She touched the tip with her finger and held back a grin.

As soon as the professor's back was turned to help a student with a tricky problem she had already answered, Hermione flicked her wand and sent the arrow-shaped note zooming across the room until it hit Malfoy on the forehead and rebounded to land calmly and peacefully in front of an amused Tom Riddle.

This time, she smirked.

Cygnus burst into loud guffaws at the look on Malfoy's face and the small red mark on his forehead, turning it into hacking coughs when Dorland turned to look at him.

They both watched as Riddle read the note, lips pressed together in amusement, before he slid the parchment over for his table partner to read.

Malfoy grinned fiendishly and began to pull out his quill. Riddle stopped him with a movement and pulled the note back, flipping it over to write on it.

 _I disagree. It is a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson for sure, one so important that it should be on the syllabus._

 _On a similar matter, Malfoy — and I quote — says, "You wound me". Do a good service and put him out of his misery._

 _-T._

Hermione stared at the parchment lying innocently on her table.

 _Do a good service, do a good service, doagoodservice_.

The insane thought was pushed from her mind as Professor Dorland called out the homework and the class scrambled to jot it down. She didn't notice the red light flashing deep inside her bag.

* * *

Tom Riddle was vastly amused — and it was only the third hour of the first day.

Malfoy was mooning, per usual. The only thing _un_ usual was the girl he was mooning over, and the amused disdain she treated him with. Tom figured it had to be the first time the Malfoy heir had been denied five times consecutively with one witch in one day.

Hermione Dumbledore, the peculiar witch of the new school year — niece of the great Albus Dumbledore, a direct descendant of Merlin himself, two Transfiguration awards under her belt — one for Excellency in an Underage Student and one for Fastest Technique — and eleven O.W.L.s.

Tom only had one more than her because of Divination.

Of course, he had only been told these things by Professor Dippet. But Tom knew how easily Professor Dippet could be duped. He should, seeing as he had done a fair amount of duping the old, easily persuaded and flustered wizard himself.

Dumbledore — Professor Dumbledore, that is — could have done so just as easily, if not easier.

However, he would soon know the witch's background for sure once Ephesus Wilkes went into the witch's background per request of his son.

As he watched, her eyes glinted strangely as Professor Slughorn slathered compliments over everything she did, not giving her an ounce of space as he talked about her uncle and how he could see even now how much she was like him, Tom felt a feeling of giddiness wash over him.

Imagine, Dumbledore's niece being his first female Death Eater. It would be the perfect revenge on the old codger.

 _Blood was thicker than water._


	4. Act Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. Nor do I receive money from it.

"In order to be an immaculate member of a flock of sheep, one must above all be a sheep oneself. **"**

 **Albert Einstein.**

* * *

Hermione Dumbledore walked with a confidence, an assurance of herself that amazed Tom Marvolo Riddle. Most girls in Hogwarts, Pureblood, mixed-blood and Mudblood alike, all walked like timid little mice, looking up to the cats — the wizards — for certainty in every little thing they did or said. It was a steady constant in Hogwarts and he had only seen the reverse attitude in the odd witch here and there — like Hermione and the Gryffindor Head Girl.

 _Come to think of it, they were the_ _**only** _ _witches who didn't act like the world would end if a hair was out of place or a nail unfiled._

Hermione Dumbledore was, thankfully, vastly different from the insufferable Head Girl he would have to deal with on a daily basis. She held herself with unmistakable aplomb, one he would resent or question if not for her heritage. She looked as if she had been through things, had seen far more than the simpering Purebloods gathered around her complimenting her hair and her dress from the day before. She walked and talked as if she had seen it all before, as if she had lived it and was only going through the motions to be polite.

She smiled at the harpies surrounding her, but Tom Riddle could see the slight disdain in her eyes though she hid it well from them.

It amused him more than anything that she seemed to hate all the attention on her. She would have to get used to it, seeing as she was Dumbledore's niece and reportedly the only witch in the family line for centuries.

Fighting the sneer that wanted to twist his lips, he struggled through the Slytherin girls and their overlapping and nose-numbing perfume to get to the witch holding his plans of revenge on her curly head.

"Hermione."

She looked up from the parchment a fourth year was showing her, and he could see the relief in her eyes before it was gone. But her smile seemed to illuminate the hall.

"Riddle."

It irritated him that she never called him Tom. He didn't know why it bothered him, since he hated the common, Muggle name, but it was like a constant reminder that she thought she was better than him. She called the rest of the Slytherin boys — excluding the insufferable Malfoy — by their first name, why not him? More than likely because they were pedigree Pureblood while he wasn't. And he had already told her to call him Tom too many times for him to say it again.

Making a mental note to make sure she was not too headstrong before indoctrinating her to the Death Eater standard, he smiled down at her using all of his infinite charm.

"I've come to rescue you. Sorry ladies," he added to the witches that surrounded Dumbledore's niece. Giving them a smile worthy of Malfoy, he watched them scurry away, sighing dreamily and looking back at him repeatedly, before looking back at Hermione.

"Quite a charmer there," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose in faint distaste. "Thank Helga I'm immune," he heard her mutter under her breath, looking after the retreating witches.

Tom laughed pleasantly. "Surely you know of your own charm, Hermione?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," she said loftily in reply, putting her nose in the air.

He laughed at her haughty air. "Come. Professor Dippet just caught me and told me he wants to see you in his office."

"Really?" She looked confused. "What for?"

Tom shrugged, and started walking, pleased when she followed immediately and with almost no hesitation. It might be easier than he thought getting her to listen to his idea for the new world order he would bring into motion.

"About your studies, I suppose," he said in answer to her question. "It is the only thing I can think of that might interest him."

The rest of the walk was spent in silence, each musing in their own thoughts.

Tom's were firmly fixed on the witch at his side.

Her hair was bushy, and her eyes a plain boring brown. She was no beauty by any means. Her face was just as plain as her eyes and hair and most likely the rest of her was just as plain and boring. But he did have to admit she was easy on the eyes, in an older but innocent type of way that even _Malfoy_ — of all people — had taken note of and recognized for what it was.

It wasn't the beauty that most Slytherin girls held — vapid and self-serving — but a more stable, established attractiveness that could hold a wizard's attention for years, even as she aged and matured, unlike the majority of the witches at Hogwarts who would become crones at the ripe age of one hundred. She would probably be just as pretty, if not more so, when she was old and gray and had a dozen cats.

 _Though if Malfoy has anything to say about it, she'll be one of his many mistresses. Old and gray and doting on Malfoy._

The thought made his lip curl.

Stopping in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office, he muttered, "Herculean," and it jumped aside to let them onto the moving staircase.

"Herculean?" Hermione said to herself, scoffing. "Sounds like a complex."

Tom ignored her, though her words did strike a chord in him. He had thought almost the same thing when he was notified of the password. And Dippet had a complex if he ever saw one. To be in control, but to let others do the hard work.

 _The man couldn't even think for himself,_ he thought sourly as he knocked sharply on the door. _Dumbledore was always whispering in his ear, trying to sully his reputation within the school. Thankfully he was as deaf as he was stupid._

"Enter!"

Tom opened the door, standing back to allow Hermione to pass before him. He followed her in, looking at the occupants of the room as he slowly closed the door.

Professor Dippet was sitting behind his desk, looking faintly distressed. Albus Dumbledore sat by the fire, eating a scone, as two unfamiliar wizards stood on either side of Professor Dippet's desk, glaring suspiciously at Hermione.

"Ah, there you are, Hermione. Right on time!" said Professor Dippet, patting his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. "Tom, if I could ask you to wait outside —"

"Actually, Headmaster, I believe Mr. Riddle should stay." Tom's eyes darted to Professor Dumbledore disbelievingly. _Albus Dumbledore wanted_ _ **him**_ _to stay?_ Before he had a chance to voice this thought aloud however, Dumbledore went on. "Seeing as Horace has a class to attend to and could not make it, I believe Mr. Riddle, as Slytherin Head Boy, should be allowed to put in his opinion of the situation for Hermione's sake."

He noticed Hermione's mouth opening to say something, confusion filling her eyes, before her lips closed with a faint clack of teeth. Tom shrugged elegantly, curious to the trouble the girl could be in already, and even more curious about Dumbledore requesting him to stay.

He sat down in the chair in front of Professor Dippet's desk, Hermione sitting in the one beside it. A moment of silence, thick with confusion and palpable nervousness, lengthened until the wizard on the right of Professor Dippet spoke.

"I am Graham Pritchard and my companion is Eldred Speek. We were sent by the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot to question impropriety at Hogwarts. Namely, whether or not you should be allowed to attend due to your relationship with Professor Dumbledore."

The former silence thickened as Tom understood the implications of what the official was saying. It was just one more surprise for him when he noticed Hermione tilted head, eyes only for Pritchard. He had expected her to be shaken that she was about to be thrown out of Hogwarts.

"And your opinion he wouldn't treat me fair," Hermione spoke slowly, as if the Ministry official was stupid. His curiosity was aroused to see her lips pursed as she gave the man every inch of his glare back.

The wizard, unused to being glared at by a witch — and a student, no less — frowned and stood taller, his chest puffed out.

"Yes, Miss Dumbledore. Surely you knew it would be improper to come to Hogwarts due to being a relation of Professor Dumbledore."

"That statement is incorrect," Tom said, at the same time Hermione spoke.

"According to the Hogwarts Student and Faculty Manual, Article III, section three, paragraph C, sub-paragraph b, it is illegal for a teacher and one of his or her own students — the ruling states 'own' very distinctly — it is illegal for a teacher and one of his or her own students to have any sort of relationship outside of student and instructor, or a familial relation, as in that of father to daughter, uncle to niece and so forth. According to sub-paragraph d of the same set of rules, it is illegal for a faculty member — note, faculty, not just instructor — to have any sort of intimate or familial relationship with any underage student."

She said all of this very quickly, and Tom wondered how she had known the exact thing he was about to say or at least allude to. He didn't know the rule word for word like she apparently did. The rule hadn't concerned him when he looked through the Hogwarts Student and Faculty Manual. The two Wizengamot officials obviously thought they had won, seeing as they were both smiling smugly. Their smiles were wiped off very quickly when she continued and Tom fought back the triumphant grin that wanted to come out as the new Slytherin showed her worth.

"Given that my birthday is the nineteenth of September, I will turn eighteen in only a few weeks, one year older than the majority age of seventeen decreed by the Ministry of Magic.

"Since Professor Dumbledore has already spoken to Professor Slughorn to have my work graded by his Potions apprentice, a Mister Creswell, there are no improprieties being taken by my relation to Professor Dumbledore. Nowhere in the rules does it say a familial relation cannot attend an instructor's lesson as long as they are not being graded by said instructor. Therefore, Professor Dumbledore and I have never had a student-instructor relationship, and have been student-faculty-member from the start, thus rendering sub-paragraph b ineligible for contestation. My being of legal age, as stated earlier, renders sub-paragraph d ineligible for contestation as well."

She finished confidently, head held high as she gave Pritchard the same haughty look she had given him in the corridor, except this time she meant it. Both Pritchard and the other official were staring, slack-jawed at her, while Professor Dippet had abandoned his handkerchief to flip through papers on his desk, avoiding everyone's eye while Dumbledore himself was grinning over his scone.

 _It had to be the longest period in which he had seen Professor Dippet's mouth shut._

 _An improvement, certainly._

Finally, Pritchard blinked and cleared his throat, an even darker frown marring his pallid face. "You certainly know your rules and regulations, Miss Dumbledore. However, that does not clarify _why_ you have enrolled yourself in Hogwarts for your seventh year. According to our notes, you have been brought up by a variety of tutors, including a Masters of Transfiguration. Surely you could have had a more… thorough education at your home."

Tom straightened, a frown to match Pritchard's on his face. He had an aversion to wizards like Pritchard. The kind who thought he was entitled to everything because of his job or birth. _And in his case, probably both._ "Seeing as that is none of your business, Sir —"

"I'll answer, Riddle." He looked over at her, and could see the storm brewing in her eyes before she lifted her chin, eyes flashing at the ministry official. "He is right, however. It _is_ none of your business why I chose to come to Hogwarts. Not the Ministry's, not the Wizengamot's and not even Hogwarts's. Ignoring that, however, who would deny the chance of learning under one of the top Transfigurations Masters of this time, who is not only accomplished in Transfiguration but Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Alchemy? Also, the Dark wizard Grindewald is a known enemy of Professor Dumbledore, which is why he has not started a campaign on Britain. As Professor Dumbledore's niece, I am a marked individual under Grindewald's reign. Hogwarts has been swamped with Muggleborn refugees from the Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy. Would you deny _me_ the same refuge in Hogwarts, sir, especially since I am a target of the most feared wizard in the world?"

She finished by batting her lashes, a saccharine smile on her mocking face.

Tom smirked as the taste of victory filled his mouth.

 _Hermione Dumbledore was looking to be a worthy contemporary._

* * *

"On Salazar's grave, I hate the Ministry of Magic," Hermione said fiercely, stabbing a piece of ham with her fork. Tom was once again sitting beside her, animatedly retelling the story of what had happened in the Headmaster's office.

Again.

He had seemed suitably awed when they walked out, almost jumping at the bit to rehash the dazed and stunned expressions on the Ministry officials' faces and making snide comments about the Ministry itself. But it was a trying experience to keep herself from forgoing her ham and stabbing _him_ with her fork as he went over it for the thousandth time, complimenting her and smiling at her and doing everything a bloody Dark Lord should not do.

It was making her feel faintly nauseous.

She blamed her jittery feeling as he smiled at her for the twelfth time on nerves and pushed her lunch away.

She couldn't believe how deep a grudge Fate held on her.

Added to the fact she was still holding onto her resentment for the Ministry under both Fudge and Scrimgeour's reign _and_ Voldemort's, she knew she would hate this Ministry just as much — if not more — since they had just tried to get her kicked out of Hogwarts.

At least Voldemort had only wanted her dead.

The thought almost made her snort, but she held it in, sitting back and just watching the lunch table around her.

Her gut was still rolling and twisting with her conflicted feelings during the impromptu meeting with the Ministry officials. She had almost been relieved that they were going to kick her out. She couldn't believe it herself and had pushed it away as fast as fire out of a dragon, scared to linger over it. But now as everyone was talking and laughing, she had time to dwell on the strange feeling that had appeared in the Headmaster's office.

Hogwarts was home for her, one that she had embraced as soon as she stepped into it, and she had thought it would always be a home for her, seeing as she was set to become Transfiguration professor in her own time. But as soon as she was Sorted into a House that hated everything she believed in, everything she was, and that housed the next Dark Lord, well, her feelings had changed quite a bit.

She had always been quick to assimilate herself to a position, whether good or bad, but she had never thought she would be forced to make nice to the teenage version of Lord Voldemort — _and didn't_ _ **that**_ _just sound like a Shakespearean comedy?_ — and be befriended by the man who fathered her torturer.

Quite frankly, she didn't think she could do it — even with Dumbledore's good will and last name.

It would have been so much easier if she could just leave Hogwarts and not tempt herself into changing the course of history — the future, whichever — by cursing Tom Riddle whenever his back was turned.

She desperately wanted to leave the claustrophobic walls of Hogwarts, and get away from the responsibilities she had thought would never come back that were now piled heavily on her still sore shoulders. It was even worse with the reminder that she would be turning _nineteen_ — not the eighteen she had told the officials. She felt a twisted sense of guilt that she was two years older than the average student and therefore able to outstrip them easier. Her sense of fairness didn't suit the position she was in, though, so she had to let it go instead of stew over it.

She turned slightly to say something to Abraxas across from Riddle but stopped when she caught the frank appraising look in Riddle's eyes. She wouldn't have been worried, except that it was directed at her.

Hermione felt something in her harden, thoughts she hadn't had since before the Final Battle coming back to haunt her.

Being threatened by a three-headed dog, petrified by a basilisk, chased by a werewolf — with mental apologies to Professor Lupin — being cursed by a Death Eater, threatened by centaurs and giants and Dementors and all sorts of nasty things, none of it had slowed her down. None of _this_ was going to slow her down, either. She had helped destroy Lord Voldemort, she couldn't be cowed by him now.

She met his frank stare, and tilted her head inquiringly.

And at that moment, she knew she could be every inch a Slytherin as he was. She just had a dash of Gryffindor thrown in.

* * *

Hermione closed her eyes against the fierce headache brewing behind her eyes and traveling down the back of her head like some sort of brain-eating slug intent on bringing her as much pain as it could until her brains were a mass of soggy mushiness — much like her cereal that morning.

She had forgotten how much she hated to be in the spotlight, her disastrous fourth year a testament to the fact and her revenge on Skeeter not painful enough, the beetle. She hated having attention directed on her, especially on anything other than her brains.

Abraxas Malfoy was going to get a nasty surprise if he didn't stop. She would have him begging for the treatment she had doled out of Umbridge at the end of her fifth year.

 _If she didn't just_ Avada Kedavra _him now, that is._

"He's doing it again," murmured Cygnus beside her. She glared at his statement of the obvious.

"Yes, I feel my ovaries shrinking as we speak."

"You should just tell him no."

"Why, thank you, Cygnus. What a _wonderful_ suggestion! I'll make good use of it, I'm sure!" she whispered furiously in one fell breath, a grimace of a smile on her face. Cygnus smiled into his hand. She kicked his shin under the table and he nudged her with his shoulder in retaliation, almost pitching her into the table of Venomous Tentacula. A vine reached out for her arm but Cygnus pulled it out of the plant's way quickly and she shot him a thankful look, even if he was the one who almost got her poisoned and killed.

"Problem, Hermione? Cygnus?" Riddle asked curiously from across the table, Abraxas standing beside him, leering at her chest between leering at other girls' chests. Riddle's eyes lingered on where Cygnus still held her arm lightly.

"No," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other in amusement.

Cygnus really did remind her of someone, she thought absently as she batted away a vine slinking toward her thigh.

And as she started trimming the leaves of the Venomous Tentacula while Cygnus held it under a continuous Stunner, she realized she hadn't thought about Harry and Luna and all her friends since breakfast.

 _Strange what time can do to a person._

* * *

"Hermione, this is Minerva McGonagall. The Gryffindor Head Girl."

Hermione had a cold feeling in her stomach, the kind you get when you're either going to burst out laughing or die.

Minerva McGonagall.

A _blonde_ Minerva McGonagall.

 _Admittedly, it was a dark blonde bordering on brunette, but it was still_ _**blonde** _ _._

A blonde Minerva McGonagall with thirty-two straight even teeth she was showing her as she _smiled._

Hermione choked on her breath, trying not to smile and giggle and grimace and scream and run in horror at the same time.

 _Funny how she took meeting Tom Riddle better than this._

"Hermione Dumbledore," she said when she got over the sudden appearance of Professor McGonagall, holding out her hand to shake Minerva's already outstretched one. "I've heard a lot about you. Professor Dumbledore says you might be apprenticing with him next year for your Mastery?"

It felt weird using the title _Professor_ when thinking about the young, excited, blonde, attractive girl standing in front of her, even if it was just in her thoughts. It felt weirder still, when she the thought, _Oh, Merlin. Professor McGonagall blushes._

The sky had to be falling somewhere.

"He's said great things about you too," the teenage McGonagall said, grinning. "About your competitions and awards."

Hermione thought back to the day before, where Dumbledore had said he would make arrangements so her abrupt entrance to Hogwarts as his niece wouldn't seem unnatural. He must have planted false memories in her head — and probably some of the teachers too.

 _Great. Dumbledore could be sent to Azkaban because of her. It was just like him to use her situation as a way to test out experimental magic — which Memory Modification was in 1944._

 _If anyone finds out, that is…_

She smiled at Minerva — it was easier to call her that when she was only a few inches taller than her than when she was sitting behind the Headmistress' desk.

"He talks too much, I'm sure. I saw your O.W.L. scores in Transfiguration in the _Daily Prophet_. Best in fifty years it said."

Hermione and Minerva walked away from the open doors to the Great Hall, both forgetting about the wizard who had introduced them in the first place as they expounded on test scores and elementary theories of Transfiguration and their scheduling of study sessions for N.E.W.T.s.

Tom Riddle pursed his lips.

 _Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea after all._

* * *

The quiet of the tower was displaced by the soft _click_ as Draco Malfoy closed the door behind him. Minerva could tell the two still had questions but she thought if she spent any more time in front of the two children — no matter what wars they fought, they were still children when she had been the one to place the Sorting Hat on their heads — she would break every single trinket Dumbledore had left behind in this now cold reminder of a life she had been denied.

"There are no words, Albus, for the crime you have committed," she whispered through her anger and pain, her Gryffindor courage deserting her as she stared at a knot of wood on her desk. The room was oddly silent, the portraits listening with rapt attention bordering on rude as the Headmistress's head fell into her hands, her always straight shoulders hunching.

"She was my _best friend_ , Albus — she did not deserve this. Never in a million lifetimes have I ever thought you unnecessarily cruel or callous, but this — she did not deserve to be used like that."

"We all had our places in the war, Minerva. Miss Granger played hers better —"

"GET OUT!"

Minerva's wand shook as she glared at the facsimile of Dumbledore locked in paint and brushstrokes and canvas. However, her hand shook not with hesitation but with barely suppressed rage. He looked at Minerva with understanding blue eyes. He nodded sympathetically as he stood from his cushioned red chair.

"Very well, Headmistress."

But even after he left his frame, Minerva's eyes clouded with tears.


	5. Act Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I own a lot of empty Diet Pepsi cans, likewise empty Marlboro Menthol cartons, and exactly 82 dollars. Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter.

"What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?"

 **T.S. Eliot.**

* * *

Harry stood at the end of the walk. The gates stood in front of him.

Neither moved.

It wasn't so much the fact that he had to leave the Hogwarts grounds that had him hesitating over pushing the great gate open and Apparating to the Burrow, it was more of the reason _why_ he had to leave the ruin of the castle in the first place.

To talk to his best-friend.

To talk _sense_ into his best-friend.

 _After_ he told him Hermione was a Slytherin and a Death Eater. Or would be. Was. Would become. Had been.

He huffed and ran a hand through his messy black hair. Time travel was hell on the English language. He had learned that when saving Sirius from the Dementor's Kiss in third year. But with Hermione's more extensive and more dangerous time traveling this time, it was infinitely worse. He didn't know how he would tell Ron without stuttering and hesitating and acting a loon.

Hermione was most likely having no difficulty at all. _Bother._

He was still surprised — if not a little shocked — that she had become a Slytherin. Had the Sorting Hat considered her one the first time as he and Ron watched on? Had it dithered over Slytherin and Gryffindor? Had she made the same choice he had and _chose_ to go into Gryffindor?

Or had her experiences during Hogwarts and the war and being his best-friend changed her so much from the buck-toothed girl from first year who cried in the girls' bathroom and told him so fervently it had to be true that books and cleverness didn't make a wizard great?

Had she changed her mind?

Harry had always known Hermione was sneaky and cunning when she chose. Taking Umbridge to the centaurs, hiding clothes to free House Elves, using Lockhart's ego to get a note for entrance into the Restricted Section. That was only the tip of the iceberg. He just hadn't realized the traits that made her Hermione made her more suited to Slytherin than Gryffindor.

Maybe that was why she had started spending so much time with Malfoy.

He pondered the thought for a moment before pushing it away. No, he knew that had been out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to all the downtrodden, just like Dobby and Crookshanks and Kreacher. It had nothing to do with him being a Slytherin.

 _No. Of course not._

But he couldn't get over the glaring truth that had been beaten into him like a Bludger. He had failed Hermione by not seeing that she had changed so much during the years. He could have helped her, made her happier, given her the benefit of the doubt and stopped her from being forced into the situation she was now in. Or had been. He and Ron could have treated her better and not used her as a walking brain.

Had that been what led her to be put in Slytherin? Hatred of their treatment of her?

Harry Potter sighed, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He didn't know, he didn't have answers, and Hermione was a Death Eater.

 _Not to mention he_ _**still** _ _had to tell Ron._

Buggeration.

* * *

For the first time in the months since the Final Battle, Hermione woke up well-rested and with a slight smile on her face. She basked in the emptiness of her brain as she stretched, yawning and mussing up her hair as she left her bed to get dressed for the school day ahead. No screams echoed in her mind as she brushed her hair. No green light flashed as she buttoned her shirt on. No smell of rotting meat burnt in her nose as she laced up her shoes, and she saw no memory of a blinding flash of sunlight obscuring two figures battling for power in the middle of the Great Hall.

She had not dreamt of Greyback's bark of a laugh, or the way his breath smelled as he breathed on her neck, sniffing her and whispering about the marks he would give her.

She had not dreamt of Bellatrix, eyes wild with a calculating madness as she tortured her for information, or the cold enchanted silver drawing a drop of blood from her neck.

She had spent too many months being restless and sleepy and too awake, staring at the red velvet of the four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower or the pallid grey of the tent she had lived in for a year. Now it seemed like her time in the past would be a vacation from the lifeless eyes that haunted her, always waiting in the wings to torment her when she was unsuspecting. She reveled in the feeling of a morning where she wasn't being haunted by ghosts she could do nothing about, and went to the Slytherin common room feeling invincible for the first time in almost a year.

Her invincibility and good mood ground to a screeching halt when she saw Tom Riddle look up from a piece of parchment, Randall Wilkes standing beside him at the fireplace.

Their shark-like smiles at each other were not reassuring.

Announcing her entrance with barely a sound — she would never cough loudly like some people, Ron and Harry namely — she walked into the Slytherin common room with a tight smile at the two wizards, wishing she was still in her dreamless sleep.

 _Randall Wilkes: trusted Death Eater.  
_

It worried her that not only had he taken an interest in her and Cygnus's conversation the day before, but that he seemed to be holding a grudge on her for something. Probably for being a Dumbledore. Now he was having private chats with the Dark Lord.

 _She felt safer already._

"Good morning, you two," she said airily, hoping her worries would be whisked away by just her voice alone. "Is Cygnus up yet?"

"I believe he's still sleeping," Riddle said, glancing at Wilkes significantly, who shrugged in a beguiling gesture she tried not to dwell on. He smiled at her — a flash of white in the gloom of the green-tinted common room. "But I was just on my way to breakfast if you would like to join me."

Hermione struggled inwardly with herself, knowing she really had no choice in the matter if she was to continue her charade as the Slytherin pureblood who was most certainly _not_ an enemy time traveler that had helped kill him.

But she _really_ didn't want to spend too much time around him. It was enough that she was in his House and he had been there to see the Ministry's disapproval of her being there at all.

 _On that matter,_ _**why** _ _had he tried to speak in her defense?_

She was sure she would never get the answer.

"Sure."

She hoped neither boy saw the way her face twisted — like she had been sucking on a particularly sour lemon — as she turned and, without waiting, walked out of the stone wall exit.

She didn't care if the Dark Lord got angry. _She was hungry, damn it, and she wasn't going to waste her good morning catering to his holier-than-thou ego._

"We have some work cut out for us, I see," Wilkes said, looking after the sliding stone wall the curly-haired witch had just left through.

Tom waved it away, slinging his book bag on his shoulder. "Nonsense. She is just a witch — one who, might I add, lives in logic and reason. She will see the sense of our goals, no matter her 'illustrious' family."

"Of course, my Lord," Wilkes murmured, thinking the exact opposite.

* * *

"The Ministry normally takes days or even weeks to appear at Hogwarts when we need them," Tom remarked casually as he poured milk into first Hermione's then his goblet. He remembered from the day before that she didn't drink pumpkin juice in the morning. "I was surprised, and a little confused, at why they deemed you such a high priority to come on the first day."

To his surprise, the witch did not take the bait so casually offered. It surprised him because he had always been aware that witches loved to talk about themselves and it had been the perfect opening for her to start prattling on about how perfect and pureblood she was like most girls in Slytherin would.

 _He should have suspected it wouldn't be the same with Dumbledore's niece. Blast._

Hermione just shrugged, eyes hooded and closed off from him. "The Ministry wastes time as if it is a spare commodity. It's not that unexpected that they considered me a threat when they think thestrals are rampaging beasts."

Tom cocked his head, grateful that it was only them and a few Hufflepuffs in the Great Hall with no one close enough to listen in on them.

"Can you see them?" he asked curiously.

"Yes." He understood by her sharp tone it was all she would say on the subject.

For now.

"You and Cygnus seemed to have become close," he commented, disinterest tingeing the dark note in his voice. "Do you like him?"

Hermione turned her head to look him fully in the face, and he remarked inwardly how having the full force of that gaze on him was slightly unnerving. Unconsciously stiffening, he stared right back.

Her lips quirked. "Riddle the Matchmaker? I'm shocked."

Tom forced out a chuckle, smiling as he buttered a roll. "You're not getting out of my question that easily, Miss Dumbledore."

She sighed from beside him. "I know. I'm horrible at changing subjects." He raised an eyebrow at her continued silence and she grinned halfheartedly, shrugging. "Cygnus is nice, but I believe his attentions are elsewhere and not on floundering new Slytherins like myself. I think he just likes to goad Malfoy."

"Maybe," he replied, thinking that wasn't the reason at all. He had taken an unhealthy interest in her the moment she had been introduced and it bothered him slightly. Cygnus had never had a witch as a friend, having called all of them vapid and uninteresting. But it had been different for Hermione. As soon as he had seen her his gaze had sharpened immediately. It couldn't be just friendship behind his motives for always being around her.

He would have to ask Cygnus since Hermione wasn't giving him the answer he wanted.

"What about you, Riddle?" she asked, wiping her mouth daintily with her napkin. When he merely raised a brow, she elaborated. "Which one of the fawning harem of witches surrounding you is yours?"

"None actually," he responded tersely. "I've told you, call me Tom."

She hummed serenely as she demolished a piece of toast over her plate. "But you're not a Tom. You're a Riddle; all happy and charming with a dark underside. Tom is just too… nice of a name, I suppose." She smiled up at him, eyes dark and mischievous. "Not that I'm saying you're mean. But you _are_ a riddle, this puzzle that everyone wants to figure out. A Head Boy who every teacher adores but they don't know you at all, do they? They pretend, just like the Slytherins pretend to know you. I bet the only person who knows you is you."

Tom stared at the girl who was studiously tearing her toast into strips, acting as if she wasn't describing him a little too close to the truth for his comfort. His tone was light with amusement when he responded. "Are you saying I don't have any friends, Hermione? That's not very nice of you."

She smiled at his teasing, looking at her plate rather than him as she gave her all-too serious answer. "Only a few great wizards and witches have true, pure friends, Riddle, and they are most always beneath them in ability and intelligence."

The force with which he bit his tongue would leave a mark, but it was worth it to stop the retort, _You're intelligent_ , to come out of his mouth. It was a silly retort to her rather presumptuous remark, and he was thankful he had saved himself the embarrassment, if not the confusion, that came with the words, unspoken or not.

He frowned to himself, grateful for reprieve in the form of Cygnus coming through the wooden doors into the Great Hall. Suspicions rising, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the witch beside him waved him over, that radiant smile of hers covering her face.

 _Maybe the witch had Seer in her blood…_

He shook the thought out of his mind, instead focusing on what he had been about to say instead of the rising anger at Cygnus. He didn't know why he would say something like that, much less think it. It made him sound like he _wanted_ her to be his friend, his equal.

He didn't. He didn't have need of them — any of the pompous purebloods he had to surround himself with. As soon as they had fulfilled his need, they would be cast off immediately.

Hermione first.

 _Think of what she could do for us even after the Ministry is taken._

Abraxas' words came into his head, also unbidden, and his scowl grew darker — though years of training meant it was only a small downward tilt of his lips. Abraxas… he wanted the girl, the niece of the champion of Mudbloods and filth. Why should he, as Lord Voldemort and Salazar Slytherin's heir, give the arrogant pureblood the only witch who didn't want him?

 _Why couldn't he keep her to himself?_

With that thought in mind, his pleasant masked slipped back into place and he passed the basket of rolls to Cygnus.

* * *

A bright yellow flash interrupted the dull monotony of the inky blackness of the inside of a small beaded purse. It was looking to be an interesting day indeed.

* * *

Finding nothing, Hermione almost growled as she slammed the third biography of Rowena Ravenclaw closed. It was pitiful how wizards got by with only the minimum work. _A Clever Tale_ by Krevork Trellis was supposed to be the leading resource for the Founder's life from childhood to death, and yet he had missed what any talented researcher could find — that her daughter had died in a forest in Albania by her mother's choice of suitor's hand. It was just the same with the other biographies she had found in the extensive Hogwarts library, all authored by wizards.

How could she trust any biographer if they missed that key part of Rowena Ravenclaw's life?

She sighed and laid her head in her hands. A week and a half of spending every spare moment in the library wasn't helping in the least to find information on the Founders that could narrow down time they had made the book. There wasn't even mention of a book between the four, though their separate works were listed in the pertinent places.

Not to mention her spare moments were few and far between. With studying for N.E.W.T.s with Minerva, homework with Cygnus and trying to avoid anything to do with Riddle, her free time was scarce. She was beginning to think there was a conspiracy against her because when she could pull herself away from the Slytherins during free periods and after dinner, Dumbledore would show up asking for a chat over tea.

 _It was enough to make her believe in Nargles._

Her hand slid from her face to the back of her neck, massaging the tensed muscles that had tightened painfully during her all day search in the library.

"What's this?"

She looked up from the table at Minerva's voice. The Head Girl had a pile of books clutched to her chest but it didn't stop her from tilting her head to look at the books spread out over the table in a dark alcove near the Restricted Section they frequently occupied.

"Extracurricular," she said wearily, hastily pushing _A Clever Tale_ away from her. She nodded to the book in her friend's arm. "What are those, then?"

Minerva smiled, too eager to share to realize she had just been distracted. "Animagi. Professor Dumbledore said I showed an aptitude that might allow me to become one."

Just as it was strange thinking of this Minerva as _Professor_ , it had been strange to learn she could easily call Minerva a friend. They had immediately gotten along just as they had when she was no longer a student but a comrade in arms and they had started having luncheons whenever they had no duties to attend to in the restoration of the castle.

It was cruelly ironic that just a few days before she was rudely transported into the past, Professor McGonagall had told her she had the same aptitude and, with lessons, she could become an Animagus.

"Congratulations," she said softly, genuinely happy for her friend but feeling sad that another thing had been taken away from her. She had been jumping-up-and-down excited when Professor McGonagall had told her. It had been a chance to spend time with her favorite mentor and a chance to do magic only a gifted few could do.

She strategically ignored Skeeter and Pettigrew as one of those gifted few.

Apparently Minerva had heard the sadness in her voice because her eager, excited face transformed into concern. "Are you okay, Hermione?" she asked, casting her eyes around at her stack of messy notes and ink stains on her hands and flecks of ink on her face. Her frown deepened. "You shouldn't be wearing yourself out like this. Maybe we should cut back on N.E.W.T —"

"I'm fine, Minerva," Hermione sighed, a smile forming. Her concern reminded her of the brilliant professor the witch in front of her would become and she couldn't help but be delighted that she would be included in such an extraordinary time in her favorite professor's life.

Minerva hummed noncommittally, still looking at her table with a critical gleam in her sharp eyes. "What kind of extracurricular is this? You have enough notes to write your own biography on the Founders."

Hermione flushed in embarrassment. The numerous feet of carefully printed notes were useless in helping her trace the Founders book.

"Just a small personal research project."

Minerva raised her brows. "Small?"

 _Damn. She was obviously inheriting some of Ron's more ugly habits. She really needed to start thinking before she spoke._

"Well, not so small," she agreed with a sheepish smile. "It's not going so well, actually."

Minerva sat her books down, completely forgetting her excitement as she started pulling the biographies toward her, always willing to help a friend in need. After going through all of them with a quick but assessing eye, she snorted and pushed them away with the same disgust that Hermione had.

"It's because these are shite," she said decisively. Hermione wasn't surprised with her cursing. She had been disillusioned with her Professor's prim and proper self during the Final Battle when she revealed her talent of swearing with the skill of the Queen's Navy.

Hermione had to admit that she was faintly jealous.

The thing that _did_ surprise her, however, were her next words.

"My Da has an extensive collection of volumes on the Founders. I'm sure if I ask he'll lend them to you."

"Your mother doesn't happen to be alive, does she?"

Minerva stared at her, not expecting that question so abruptly. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

Hermione looked at her nails nonchalantly, only realizing it was a trait she had seen Cygnus do after she had already done it. "Pity," she said. "I would marry him for those books."

A loud snort of amusement alerted the librarian — a Mr. Hester that was just as obsessive over the library as Madam Pince had been — and they were promptly thrown out.

* * *

Draco had always thought Malfoy Manor was cold, uninviting, and only conducive to throwing boring parties for Purebloods and Ministry officials for his father to bribe and schmooze and for his mother to throw elaborate — but still boring — tea parties for the Pureblood wives and women.

Draco had never thought it would become the Dark Lord's hideout and base camp for the Death Eaters. He never thought he would have to bring prisoners up from the cool dankness of the dungeons, where Mother had kept her expensive wines and his father hid away his expensive Muggle bourbon.

He never thought he would see the Dark Lord sit at the head of his dining room table or see that hair-raising pet snake of his slithering along it to eat a recently deceased professor at Hogwarts.

He didn't know what he had expected when joining the Death Eaters but it had never been the things going on in his home.

 _Couldn't they have plotted to take over the world somewhere other than his ancestral home? Because, really, that ghastly snake scared every peacock on their land terribly._

He was much too fond of those little buggers, and had been slightly affronted when he saw them shedding their plumage in face of the giant snake's presence at Malfoy Manor.

"Let's go, ferret. We don't have all day."

"Ron!" hissed the oaf's sister, knuckles white against Potter's arm. Draco shrugged at the apology-filled look she sent him, and looked back to his house.

"So how do you like having all your family's assets seized?" he went on as Draco led them through the large stately front door. "And your parents in jail? Nice fuzzy feelings, idn't ferret?"

"Ron, shut up," growled the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die. Draco's fists were clenched tight beside him, his hand itching for a wand that couldn't do the curses he wanted to send Weasley's way. He hated this — being indebted to _Weasley_ of all people. Potter, he could stand. He was famous and the defeater of the Dark Lord. The redhead oaf was another story altogether.

"What?" Weasley cried, outraged. "He deserves it! Probably did some spell on Hermione, making her —"

"A Slytherin?" Draco said, sneering even though they couldn't see. "If only I could have Sorted you where you belong. Oh, wait! They don't have a House for squibs."

"Now, look here, ferret —"

"Mister Weasley, if you cannot hold your tongue, I will have to ask you to leave," came the clipped tone of Headmistress McGonagall. "You too, Mister Malfoy. We appreciate you bringing us to your home, but I will not tolerate the two of you squabbling like five year olds."

"Ron, Malfoy's wand is limited to only the minimum amount of magic," came Ginny from the other side of Potter. "Kingsley himself put it on, remember?"

It seemed now that Hermione had vacated the spot of logic and reason for the always righteous Golden Trio, the Weaselette had stepped into the role admirably.

The appreciation they showed her, compared to what they had done to Hermione after the Final Battle made his sharp tongue all the worse. Or better, depending on how one looked at it.

He was saved from Weasley's response to his sister as he opened the doors to his father's study. Feet cushioned by thick red carpet, Draco ignored the ceiling high bookshelves filled with titles from across the world and the large, gleaming teak desk on the far side of the room. He had eyes for only two things.

The portraits of Abraxas Malfoy and Cygnus Black.

Side by side, they were a stark contrast to one another. One light, with pale blond hair and the fairest of skin that shone even in pigment, adorned with a sneer that never went away. The other, dark and bold, with black hair and an open, almost-honest face. Draco stood in front of them, wondering for almost the thousandth time how his mother had made father put the portrait of Cygnus Black into his study. His father supposedly hated the man. Respected him, but hated him more.

And it seemed Cygnus Black hated Abraxas Malfoy with equal fervor, if not more.

"Our grandson, Abraxas," he said, looking Draco up and down. "Come to tear us down, boy? Now that Abraxas' _progeny_ " — he sneered the word with all the venom of a cobra — "is finally put in Azkaban where he belongs?"

Draco, understandably, was taken aback.

 _It was no wonder Father hated his own study, having to deal with a portrait who hated him and was never polite enough to hold his painted tongue._

He wondered how he could stand being in it. Then he noticed the curtain drawn to the side of Cygnus.

"Do shut up, you twat," drawled the sneering portrait from beside his frame. "Or I'll jump out of my frame."

"Please. You say that everyday. I wish you would just do it already."

"Mister Malfoy, if you will," said McGonagall from behind him. He could hear Weasley sniggering over his grandfathers' bickering and shot him a look of pure loathing — just for the sake of it — as he stepped back so the Headmistress of Hogwarts could take his place in front of the portraits.

"Who might you be?" said Abraxas Malfoy. He appraised McGonagall and her tightly coiled bun and ironed robes with a gleam in his painted blue eyes.

"The esteemed Minerva McGonagall, Abraxas," said Cygnus Black, eyes just as appraising. "It seems time was not fair to you, Minerva."

"Yet _I_ am here and you, Cygnus, are there," McGonagall returned dryly.

A faint smile curled his lips. "Indeed."

"Come to bore us with the tale of Dumbledore's death?" drawled Abraxas Malfoy. Draco flinched at his tactless comment — he obviously didn't know he had been the one ordered to kill him. "Too late, old girl. We already heard."

McGonagall raised her hand sharply, as if she expected Potter or one of the Weasleys to retort angrily, and indeed, he could see Potter's mouth closing on the words he had been about to say.

"Tom Riddle, actually." He had never heard his Transfiguration professor's voice so full of vindictive glee. "Killed a few months ago by Mister Potter here."

She moved to the side, the better for the portraits to see Potter. His grandfathers' expressions were so different in that moment that Draco almost sputtered in shock. While Abraxas was sneering, Cygnus was almost… _grinning_.

"I see."

"I'm sure you do, Abraxas," McGonagall said, a corner of her lip quirking though she tried to keep them straight. "But Mister Potter also had help. From Mister Weasley" — she indicated him with her hand then moved forward to bring in the death blow — "and a young woman named… Hermione. I believe you two know her."

"I assure you, McGonagall, we have been dead for quite some time now. We know of no _Hermione_ who could have helped defeat Tom Riddle," said Abraxas, rubbing his nails on the collar of his stiff green robes.

But Cygnus was not so nonchalant. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously at the Headmistress and he seemed to be sizing up the threat held in her words. "I only know of one Hermione, and if she were among the living she would not have been classified as a young woman."

"But she knows that, Cy," Abraxas said, glancing at him with an unpremeditated air that stunk of calculation. "They were — what's the term? — bosom buddies." He appraised McGonagall again, but the glint in his eyes was stranger, darker, and reminded Draco uncomfortably of his father. "So either Minerva is losing her memory in old age or —"

"— she is trying to play us for fools. Tell us, Minerva, what you are dying to reveal."

McGonagall deliberated, and Draco could tell that she was hesitating over telling his ancestors anything. He was just about to interrupt — for some reason, he didn't want the information about Hermione to get around — when she finally spoke, quelling his urge to speak with her famous reprimanding glare.

"Last week, I learned something very unsettling." She pursed her lips, eyes faraway. "Hermione Dumbledore was not a Dumbledore at all. She is a Muggleborn witch, one of my students, who was transported through time to our seventh year."

" _Muggleborn?"_

Cygnus spared a brief glare through his frame at Abraxas before his dark eyes returned to McGonagall probingly. "She wore the Dumbledore ring."

Abraxas, who had been near to hyperventilating in his portrait, calmed just as quickly. He smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in his robes, superior smirk back in place. "Ah, yes. So even if she was a Muggleborn, which I sincerely doubt" — McGonagall and Cygnus rolled their eyes in tandem — "then the ring proves she was a Dumbledore. And a Pureblood." He added with a tip of his head.

 _Was_ _ **he**_ _that obnoxious?_ Draco wondered, eyeing the portrait with well-hidden distaste. He'd have to ask Hermione when she came back. She'd tell him the truth.

 _If she came back._

The thought brought him round to why they were in his Auror monitored home talking to two bickering portraits in the first place. Cygnus and Abraxas were two of the three who had last seen Hermione before she disappeared — and since one of the three was dead for good this time and had no portrait that they knew of they were left with his grandfathers.

His _Slytherin_ grandfathers, who had defined the words _conniving_ , _sneaky_ , and _superior_ in life and now death _,_ and lived and breathed the words _information is power_.

It might be harder than McGonagall thought to get the information they wanted from them if the looks on their faces were anything to go by.

"Her blood status does not matter —"

Potter cut through McGonagall's words. "What _ring_ are you talking about? Hermione doesn't wear jewelry."

Draco was the only one who saw the reproachful look little Weaselette sent him.

 _So Potty's girlfriend was jealous._

The thought satisfied him immensely.

"She did in _our_ time," said Cygnus, lip curling at the boy. "Like any worthy Pureblood witch, she wore the finest of jewels, some given as gifts" — here, he cast his eyes to the other portrait studiously avoiding anyone's eye, living and dead — "and carried herself as the epitome of a Slytherin witch." Looking at Draco, he raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why you were not betrothed to the girl? _If_ she is who Minerva says she is?"

Face going distinctly pink in the face of his grandfather's cool wrath, Draco tried desperately to get past his humiliation of the question so he could answer.

 _And further humiliated himself._

"Now, Cygnus," said McGonagall, and even though he was thankful for the reprieve of humiliating himself, he didn't especially like the teasing note in his professor's voice. _Didn't she say earlier that Cygnus Black didn't want Hermione being friends with her?_ "You didn't answer the boy's question. Hermione was wearing the Dumbledore ring?"

Abraxas smirked haughtily. "It figures a witch of your… caliber wouldn't recognize a _unus pactus_ ring."

Draco's jaw dropped so quickly he was amazed it didn't hit the floor with a thud.

"She — _Hermione_ —" He shook his head disbelievingly, the words not registering in his brain. _"Hermione?"_

McGonagall was similarly dumbstruck, hand clasping at her neck in shock. "But Albus said it was a signet ring. He did not say it was the Dumbledore _unus pactus_ ring."

"For some of the older families it is one in the same, Minerva," said Cygnus, his expression almost pitying as he looked at the stunned witch. "It is not surprising that the signet ring was an _unus pactus_ ring since the Dumbledore family are known to have only a few witches in their line."

Ignoring Potter and Weasley's significant looks at one another, Draco closed his eyes as a horde of Bludgers used his chest as target practice. He didn't care if these people saw him at his worst. He knew even Lucius Malfoy would probably faint at the implications of what he had just heard. He used his father's desk as a stabilizer, hair in disarray from combing his hand through it. Somehow, he was unbelieving and yet insanely hopeful as he looked up at the portraits. "Did it take to her? The ring?"

"It was on her finger at the Sorting," Cygnus said with a nod at him. He felt a part of himself deflate at the words while the other half had already started planning to use the information to his advantage. He didn't know which was worse.

Potter looked over at him, exasperation clear in his eyes. "What _is_ an _unus pactus_ ring? I know my Latin is a little weak, but it sounds like a betrothal ring."

Abraxas nodded at him. "It was originally a betrothal ring for unwed witches of Pureblood families. It signified the witch was unmarried and looking for suitors. It was an old tradition that was outdated even in the 40's, and usually only used for witches who had troubles finding a suitor — which was why it was so strange to see Hermione wearing one." He finished on an odd note, eyes distant, as if old memories were being remembered.

Cygnus rolled his eyes at the long pause and continued for the ones who didn't know the significance the ring held. "However, as with all things Old Magic, the rings developed over time, taking on power from the many witches who wore it. The power varied with the power of the witch and the family she belonged to. Therefore, if a Pureblood family with little to no magical power had a ring, it would not be much use to the witch who inherited it unless she had powerful magic herself. Likewise, a witch with much power and with a strong family background wore the ring —"

"It would enhance her magic to an extreme degree," Abraxas said solemnly.

"Yes. And with Hermione's considerable power combined with the Dumbledore _unus pactus_ ring —"

"It elevated her to the likes of Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Cygnus glared at Abraxas for interrupting him the second time and his tone was sharp when he continued. "When she used it, that is. Some witches were able to control the power that the _unus pactus_ ring output and it would only have a minimum impact on her magic. On others it was a constant enhancer that made their magic uncontrollable. One minute she would be able to cast the hardest of magic, and the next she could barely cast a _Lumos._ It was one of the reasons they were so outdated within Pureblood families, even the weakest. They did not want their witches almost as weak as squibs, only able to do the simplest magic. Hermione, however —"

"Was magnificent."

"But she's still a Muggleborn," Ginny said with a frown on her freckled face. "Not a Dumbledore."

Cygnus, distracted from berating Abraxas for interrupting a third time, wrinkled his nose at the witch's tone before looking at her like the ignorant girl she was. "The ring was made with _Old Magic_ ," he said, condescension coating every word. Ron bristled indignantly. "It would accept any worthy witch regardless of blood-status according to the family's code. If she had put on, say, the Malfoy family _unus pactus_ ring, it most likely would not have accepted her, but since the Dumbledore ring accepted her and her magic, it made her into a Pureblood."

"It would be as if she had been born into the family," McGonagall elaborated when Ron Weasley still looked confused. _Probably didn't understand half of what his ancestors had said._

The thought almost pulled him out of the shock he was in. Almost.

Because there was one thing about the _unus pactus_ ring that his ancestors had left out.

"The ring also attracts wizards worthy of the witch wearing it," he said quietly when the silence extended and neither of his grandfathers continued with the most terrifying bit. At least, terrifying for him. For Hermione.

 _For the world._

Potter narrowed his eyes at him as the shocked air of the room turned into horror for the still-alive people inside his father's study who were still getting over the war they just won.

"What do you mean?"

Abraxas huffed impatiently. "It means, young man, that the ring attracts worthy wizards to her."

"Yes, I got that, thanks," Potter sneered at the portrait. "But what kind of worthy —" He stopped, his eyes going wide as he finally comprehended _why_ McGonagall's lips were pressed so tightly together and Draco was having a hard time breathing.

"Magical strength, intelligence, blood purity." Abraxas counted off with his fingers, unaware or in ignorance of the terror permeating the room. "Sometimes gold, depending on the family. The ring attracts the wizards most likely to help bear strong heirs."

"Heirs?"

Ron Weasley fell to the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

Cygnus stared as the truth penetrated his brain. "You're attracted to her, aren't you?"

Tom started, then scoffed at the audacious wizard. "No. Of course not."

"Tom," started Cygnus seriously, frowning at him, "in all seven years of knowing you, you've never asked me about a witch. The one time you have asked me about one, she was already dead. So, what is it? What has her twisting your knickers so much that you'll threaten me?"

He narrowed his eyes, the shadows of the torch-lit hallway obscuring half his face in shadows. "You presume too much, Cygnus. I suggest you stop before your little secret becomes public knowledge."

Glaring, the wizard crossed his arms. "She's my friend, Tom. I like her as a _friend_ , nothing more."

"Good," he said, the word clipped and coated with resentment and something deeper, indefinable, and all-together too dark for the other wizard's taste. "Make sure it stays that way, will you?"

Cygnus watched as the black robes of the Head Boy disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone in a dark and secluded corridor with his warring thoughts.


	6. Act Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, and if I did, fandom would not exist because no one would read it. Oh well. Glad JKR has it then.

**"** Anger ventilated often hurries toward forgiveness; and concealed often hardens into revenge. **"**

 **Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton**

* * *

There was only one word to sum up what was happening at Hogwarts.

Creepy.

Tom Riddle was staring at her. Staring at her as if she was a new and dangerous creature and he was a half-giant with a decidedly bright gleam in his eye.

Again, creepy.

And he had been doing it for almost three weeks.

For two and a half weeks, ever since that disastrous morning where the smartest witch of her age had done the dumbest thing of the century.

 _She analyzed_ _**Lord Voldemort** _ _._

That wouldn't have been so bad, except that she had analyzed Lord Voldemort _to_ Lord Voldemort.

She was in hell without the flames.

She didn't even know _why_ she had done it. It was almost as if something had taken over her, directed her train of thought, and manipulated her mouth to spout ridiculousness. She had only realized what had happened, what she had done, when she had found herself near-hyperventilating in a bathroom stall after her first class.

Which wasn't exactly where she thought she would be when she started the day after an amazing dreamless sleep.

She had found no lingering traces of Dark magic or potions from a basic diagnostic spell, and she knew what the Imperius Curse felt like so knew no one had cast it on her. Also, there was no reason for anyone at Hogwarts to cast it on her or slip her any potions on her supposed second day of school.

 _Unless he had done it._ But why would Tom Riddle want her to get diarrhea of the mouth and start dissecting his personality? Surely he would know himself better than her.

She didn't know what to think, what to feel beside all-consuming horror mixed with a pinch of red hot embarrassment.

And still he was staring at her.

It was really starting to grate on her already fraying nerves.

From the moment he had started, she had been aware of the weight of his gaze on her, the feeling almost a physical sensation. It made her increasingly jumpy, though she tried not to show it, even while the knowledge he watched seemed to sensitize every nerve ending.

She found she had gradually moved away from him when she could. In classes where she cloistered herself to Cygnus and taking to the library with or without Minerva instead of staying in the dark and gloomy common room. But mealtimes felt like a small war-zone, their arms brushing against one another, intense stares not meant for such proximity, small but intelligent talk that had goosebumps rising on her arms.

She had learnt quickly that Riddle ruled the Slytherin table. No matter how persistent she was about sitting in the middle of a group of annoying girls, he would always call her over with that abominable smile and catch everyone's attention as they waited for her to _stop being stupid and go sit by him_. Or he would be waiting in the common room, Randall Wilkes or Malfoy beside him, and would ask her with his most innocent expression if she would like to have breakfast with him.

It was enough to put her off food forever.

But even that didn't work. It seemed Riddle had the amazing ability of always knowing when she planned on skipping meals, and would always be by her side as she left a class or exited the common room late, always leading her — sometimes touching her arm as if she needed guiding — to the Great Hall. Always with that pleasant smile and those perfectly ironed ties.

Did he know? Did he know that Dumbledore's niece was an imposter? A Muggleborn witch from the future who would help destroy his hard-won Horcruxes with zeal? Did he know the pleasure, the aching, bone-curling pleasure she had felt when the cup had shattered and screamed under the basilisk fang she had driven into it? Did he know of her wicked grin, the taunts of Mudblood and defiler of magic and magic thief running through her head? Did he know how tempted she was to _Incendio_ his dead, lifeless body?

Did he know?

He couldn't, and yet he stared at her.

Just when she was about to throw up her arms and admit defeat in whatever game she was unknowingly playing with the Head Boy, Cygnus sat down beside her with a fluffy green scarf in his hands.

"Here," he said gruffly, mouth muffled by his own scarf as he wrapped the garment loosely around her neck. She tightened it, feeling a little self-conscious in so much Slytherin green and found the heating charm on it blocked most of the chilly wind from her exposed skin, though her cheeks and nose were painfully red. It was a remarkably cold September afternoon and they were sitting high in the Quidditch stands watching the Slytherin Quidditch Captain — none other than Abraxas Malfoy — hold tryouts for new Beaters and Chasers.

They had somehow gotten roped into going by Abraxas, though for the life of them they couldn't remember how, and she sincerely doubted his claim that they sit at the top of the stands the better to see him as anything but his own brand of egotistical insanity as the wind howled through the stands and made her and Cygnus shiver. They huddled together in comfortable silence, watching the Quidditch players' robes whip around them as they tried out in the freezing cold.

She was supremely amused that Abraxas' long hair, caught in a ponytail, was beating him in the face. She hoped it left a mark.

"I think it's a premonition," said Cygnus. She thought it sounded more like _ifinkisapremonison_ through the fabric of his scarf and had to take a moment to discern his words.

Hermione nodded when she did, not tempting the weather's wrath by speaking at all.

She tried to keep her attention firmly on the boys trying out for Beater, but she found her eyes inevitably drawn to the place where her watcher was sitting. Wearing only his uniform and usual pristine black robes, he sat with Randall Wilkes, Avery, Rosier and a few others who she had dimly recognized from photos of escaped Death Eaters from Azkaban. She wondered if he ever wore anything but his uniform, but the thought was fleeting as she realized _who_ exactly she was thinking about.

As always when she caught him watching her, Riddle smiled, acting as if it was the most natural thing to do when he was noticed being oh-so-creepy.

 _Which for him it probably was._

"I mean, Gryffindor tryouts were in perfect weather, along with Hufflepuff's and Ravenclaw's," Cygnus went on, distracting her from her stare down with Riddle. She faced forward, listening intently to him so she could understand what he was saying through his scarf. He gestured at the players, all being battered by the cold wind. "Look at this! It has to mean something about the upcoming season."

"Maybe it means Abraxas should have checked the weather before scheduling tryouts today," she commented wearily. No matter what year she was in, Hermione hated Quidditch. Her only reason for even going to games before was because first Harry then Ron was on the team.

Though she had to honestly admit that Quidditch tryouts were always a little more entertaining to watch, especially with unpracticed Beaters hitting the Bludger at Abraxas.

She wished Luna was there to commentate. She would probably say Orion's missed shot was a great conspiracy of some bizarre creature or another as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain cradled his head and the players huddled around him in the air, worried for their fearless leader.

"I think he'll make the team," Cygnus said decisively.

"He _does_ have excellent aim," she replied approvingly.

He glanced at her, brown eyes mischievous. "I'm sure Abraxas would appreciate if you kissed it and made it better."

"As I'm sure you would appreciate another Stinging Hex."

He scowled, the argument from her first morning almost three weeks ago still not over. He was being stubbornly persistent that almost breaking her toes didn't warrant such an injury to such a sensitive spot.

She disagreed.

"Touché," he finally said, and just like that, the argument was over.

She smiled and leaned against him, both watching in silence as the tryouts continued with a very grumpy and embarrassed Abraxas.

However terribly cliché it was, she couldn't help but feel as though they had been friends forever. He was like a smarter, more personable Draco who would do play-by-play reenactments of Quidditch games with a fork and a salt shaker and other table accompaniments. And though Ron had done the same thing after every Hogwarts match, she thought Draco was the more suitable person to compare Cygnus to. Ron wouldn't be caught dead debating Arithmancy theorems at the breakfast table, complete with marmalade covered notes and bets that whoever was right had to do the other's homework for the day or buy the first round of drinks at the Three Broomsticks when Hogsmeade weekend came.

And although she missed Harry, Draco, Luna, and even Ron, she couldn't help but feel as if something missing had clicked into place whenever Cygnus had stepped into her life.

She was a long way from that lonely girl crying in the bathroom over a boy jealous of her intelligence.

"Have you noticed our Head Boy's focus?" he asked a few minutes later, voice barely audible over the wind even though she sat so close to him. He glanced at her again, eyes the only thing revealing he was waiting for an answer since the rest of his face was hidden by his scarf. His gaze darted briefly over her head to where Riddle was sitting before coming to rest back on her.

"And here I thought I was going crazy," she murmured just loud enough for him to hear. She didn't dare risk a look at Riddle. His eyes on her held a physical weight she could feel even then.

Confusion was clear in his eyes. "You're not attracted to him?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No."

She definitely wasn't attracted to Tom Riddle. Not to him or his perfectly ironed ties, or his Head Boy badge that was always gleaming and polished, or the barely perceptible dimple on his left cheek when he smiled, or how he could make her breath catch when he inadvertently reminded her just how frighteningly intelligent he was, or the way his eyes looked black at first glance but in direct sunlight were just a very dark blue, or the shiny black locks that couldn't look rumpled if he tried. Sod.

 _No, she wasn't attracted to Tom Riddle at all._

"Right," Cygnus drawled, clearly unconvinced. He looked almost disappointed in her. He shook his head, staring straight ahead again and she leaned heavily against him, feeling as if the world should be ending.

* * *

"Good job, Orion!" Cygnus clapped his younger brother on the back, jostling him and almost making him drop his pumpkin juice. "You're sure to get on the team."

Orion glared.

"I hit Abraxas with a Bludger."

"Very good aim, I said," Hermione confided seriously, smiling at him.

Another glare.

"I wasn't aiming at him."

Cygnus waved the comment away like a bothering fly. "Who cares about aim when you have pure entertainment value?"

And another glare.

"We are not related."

Cygnus turned serious in a heartbeat, staring his brother down at the Slytherin table. "I know."

Hermione was the first to laugh, though it was slightly forced, as she recognized his odd sense of humor. She shook her head as she reached across the table to grab a couple rolls and the other Slytherins soon followed suit and returned to their own conversations, laughing and joking at Orion's expense.

All except Riddle, who was interestingly enough quiet. His hand grazed her arm as she sat back down on the bench beside him. It felt like a thousand hot needles poking the skin he touched, heightening her body to his very nearness. Her body tensed immediately at the contact, her wand clutched tightly in her robe pocket as she desperately wished she was back in the Battle of Hogwarts fighting for her life rather than sitting next to the Head Boy of 1944.

As he leaned toward her, she could smell his cologne. Richly layered and subtle, just like him. She would have rolled her eyes at her romanticizing over his _cologne_ of all things, but she was still in the grip of her instinctual fear of his proximity. Red eyes in a dark forest type of instinctual fear. Except she could never be scared of red eyes in a dark forest now. Not now that Tom Riddle was inadvertently thrust into her life.

His hand hovered over her arm and she was tempted to snatch it back to her. She didn't know why he had to be so close, trespassing her space. Invading her senses. Violating her with his proximity. She didn't know why he did anything.

She didn't _want_ to know.

"Minerva wishes for you to meet her in the library after dinner," he whispered almost into her ear. He was too close. Far too close for such a casual message. She could faintly feel his lips moving against her and barely registered his words as she moved away, pretending she needed more pumpkin juice to get away from him.

She ignored both the way he leaned back to better watch her reaction and the way her hand shook as she poured juice into her goblet.

 _Far too close._

* * *

Hermione closed the curtains of her four-poster with a sigh, glad of the Silencing Charm she had cast upon them as her abused ears were given a rest. She could happily wish Pansy Parkinson was there along with her casual cruelty if only she could get away from the _giggling_.

She had never been fond of girls. She was more bookish and less makeup and robes, and she had been aware of this even before she had known she was a witch. The only girl friends that she had were Ginny and Luna, and her friendship with Ginny had come to a stand-still after the Final Battle when she had learned of her spending weeks in a tent alone with Harry after Ron deserted them.

She had tried to tell her the truth, but Ginny's hair had obviously went to her eyes and all she saw was red and betrayal. At least Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had believed her, though with Ron and Ginny both angry at her, she had rarely went to the Burrow when invited, preferring instead to roam the corridors with the amazingly perceptive Luna or talk academics with Draco so she didn't have to endure cold stares across the dinner table.

But she had never realized — never imagined in her worst nightmares — that anyone could giggle as much as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil combined. That theory had been blown clear out of the water when she had met Ambresia Parkinson.

It was like listening to a banshee trying to out scream a smoke detector.

The thought was not comforting when she had five classes with the witch along with a shared dormitory.

 _To think, she used to hate listening to Lavender and Parvati prattle non-stop about boys._

Now, she would gladly take twenty Lavender and Parvati's over having her brain dribble out her ears every time Ambresia opened her mouth.

She sighed again and the eerie quiet of her four-poster swallowed it.

Hermione smiled. She loved magic.

Turning onto her stomach, she dug in the pocket of her robes for her constant companion. Her purse. Taking it out, she was glad she hadn't kicked the habit of carrying everything around with her in the small beaded bag — even if Harry and Draco had teased her about it. Amazingly enough, Luna had been surprisingly correct when she had said, "You never know when you'll need a cast-iron cauldron, do you?"

 _Indeed_ , she thought wryly as she opened it.

" _Accio Founder's book!"_

The book flew into her hand out of the depths of the purse, its aged leather cover soft in her grip. Putting her purse to the side, she set the book on her pillow, frowning as she opened it for the nth time in two and a half weeks and was greeted by empty pages.

 _Bloody, stupid —_

She was tempted to slam the book shut and light it on fire, just for the sake of imagining it scream.

She frowned again.

 _She really should stop likening everything to Horcruxes._ _It would probably do loads for her temper._

 _Not to mention her sanity._

As fast as she opened the book, she closed it. Her moderately good day shouldn't end with screaming at books and threatening a spine-rendering death.

 _Not that it wouldn't let off some of her frustration with Riddle._

She glared at the book lying innocently on her pillow. It was all its fault she was stuck here in the first place. Stuck acting civil and being polite and smiling and being _too damn close_ to a wizard who would have ordered her parents killed — they wouldn't have been important enough to do personally. In a twisted way, that insulted her. That her parents' deaths would be passed off to subordinates. Not worth the time to do himself. Just another Muggle couple, causalities in a war they couldn't fight because of their very being.

Her glare was fierce as she threw the book into her trunk, her fury blinding her as she slammed the lid closed and crawled back into bed without casting her usual nighttime spells. She didn't want that _thing_ near her tonight — she was too tempted to burn it just to punish it. She didn't even feel like looking through the books Minerva's father had sent.

She flopped back onto her pillows, her hair a messy halo around her head.

Her scream of pure rage was swallowed as quickly as it came, her show of temper dulled by the Silencing Charm around her bed.

Sometimes she _hated_ magic.

* * *

A few days later, when she had sufficiently pushed back her anger, she opened the books Minerva's father had sent. After cross marking between the period the parchment and leather cover had been made — with extensive help from Dumbledore — and times when all four Founders were mysteriously absent from the day-to-day Hogwarts activities in the tenth century according to the biographies, she found two time periods in which the book could have been written.

But when she reached into her bag, she found an empty space where the Founders book should have been.

It wasn't there. Or in her trunk.

For the first time since she had been transported into the past, Hermione cried.

Then her anger returned full force.


	7. Act Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own or make money from Harry Potter or its characters, locations, etc.

**"** Have you ever noticed there is never any third act to a nightmare? They bring you to a climax of terror and then leave you there. **"**

 **Max Beerbohm**

* * *

Hermione twisted, the sheets soaked with sweat under her. Her loose nightgown was pushed up below her breasts. Individual drops of sweat made her flat stomach shine, her protruding ribs glistening in the soft wandlight. Thighs spread, she looked wanton and delicious, her body beckoning. Face in a continual grimace, she groaned. Or moaned.

He couldn't be sure anymore.

* * *

 _It was the kind of fear that made logic disappear. The kind where, in Muggle movies, the buxom blonde runs further into the house when confronted with the axe-wielding murderer. The kind that makes your blood freeze and your limbs heavy and your heart jump out of your chest. The kind of fear you feel right before you die a gruesome death._

 _Memories flashed before her eyes. Inconsequential and meaningless and dear to her. Saying goodbye to her parents before getting on the Hogwarts Express the first time. The tears in her mother's eyes she desperately tried to hide as she hugged her. Her father's grim but excited features._

 _Her utter despair in face of such loneliness. She didn't understand! She was supposed to be normal in the Wizarding world! It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be accepted._

 _Looking at Snape, realizing he knew she was lying when she said that she had went to look for the troll on her own. Her confusion when he didn't tell Professor McGonagall the truth._

" _You failed everything!" Professor McGonagall screamed at her, hand clenched around a stack of papers. T. T. T. T. All of them. Trolls on everything._

 _Laughing with Harry and Ron, feet lowered and swinging in the lake. The sun shone on them. All was well._

" _You will do well, Miss Granger." A wrinkled hand patted hers. He thought she was asleep in the Hospital Wing after being revived by Mandrake Draught. "Or should I say Miss Dumbledore?"_

 _And still she ran. From what, she didn't know._

 _Darkness surrounded her, the white of her nightgown the only source of color in the inky blackness. The terror that blinded her from even the smallest of light led her further into the forest of night. Though leaves crumpled under her bare feet, she couldn't be sure if she was running in a real forest or a subconscious rendering, the branches that caught her hair and slapped her skin only another confusion in what was quickening to become a nightmare._

 _Something big was crashing through the wildlife behind her, footsteps thundering as if Zeus himself was bearing down upon her. She ran faster, imagining herself as Hermes in the terrible Greek tragedy she was in._

 _But her feet did not have wings, and her lungs had not the capacity to sustain her to the next tree, much less Olympus, and to further her horror, her steps slowed, her frantic flight turned into a morning jog._

 _Then with a terrible scream, something not out of Greek myth but a midnight movie horror film blindsided her. She flew through the nightmare forest. The terrible creature's triumphant scream was a call to her destruction as her brief flight ended with a crack of bone on a tree trunk. She groaned as she slid down the tree , bark scratching her back and irritating the wound on the back of her head until she was firmly sprawled on the ground._ _Putrid breaths rasped, leaves crackled as the creature moved in for the kill. She held her eyes tightly shut, Gryffindor courage not proving worthy enough to look her Death in the face._

" _The Mudblood has finally come for punishment, has she?" it said, its rotting breath corrupting the air around them. It smelled like Death, like millions of rotting corpses combined with a horde of Dementors. There was no trace of new life in it, no trace of budding flowers or freshly mown grass or new parchment._

 _Just neverending Death._

 _She heard the sound of a hundred bones cracking, and could only tell by the way the monster's hard and scaly flesh grazed her splayed legs that it had kneeled in front of her. She could feel its eyes like thousand pound weights._

" _Open your eyes, Mudblood."_

 _She didn't open her mouth to reply. She knew she would either vomit or plead, and she was sure the monster wouldn't take well to either. She settled for shaking her head, her eyes clenched tightly closed. She didn't want to see it again, whatever it was. The peripheral image she had caught when it tackled her was enough for a million lifetimes of nightmares._

 _Quick as a striking snake, her right wrist was caught in its huge grip. Claws, long and sharp and jagged, ripped into her flesh as it twisted her arm. She cried out as the pain shot up her arm, blinding and relentless. Tears ran down her cheeks, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she tried to get past the pain to plead._

" _You feel that, Mudblood?" it asked in a growl ten time worse than Fluffy's. "Imagine what else I have in store for you if you do not open your unworthy eyes."_

Her eyes shot open. Only darkness greeted her. Darkness just as vast and heavy and smothering as her dream. She closed her eyes against it and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

 _It was only a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Nothing more._

When her breathing evened out, she became aware of her aching limbs, her sore back, a lingering smell of Death. Subconscious screaming in fear, her consciousness blocked out the deadly truth, not ready — not willing — to acknowledge it.

Delirious, she awkwardly reached under her pillow without moving her body, sighing quietly in relief when her fingers closed over Bellatrix Lestrange's former wand. It still felt different, not as undeniably _right_ like her vine wood one, but it had accustomed to her in course of the Final Battle and helped her keep her own with its original owner. Now it felt warm and welcoming in her hand. It felt _right_. She dried herself and the sheets of the sweat that soaked them before putting it back in its resting place.

With the urgency of a scared child, she slid under the covers and pulled them above her head, curling into a tight, fetal ball, cradling her broken wrist and bleeding arm. Only then did she allow the impossibility of it all to wash over her, the cold raw fear, the reaction to so near an escape. The sob that clawed its way out of her throat sounded like nothing human.

Her injured arm cradled to her chest, blood soaking through her nightgown and staining her chest red, she tried not to fall back asleep, she struggled to stay awake even as her eyelids lowered.

* * *

In another dormitory not too far from Hermione Granger's, the Founders book glowed black.

The scene was staged —

Somewhere else, more than a few minutes away from either dormitory, a gold watch closed with a snap and a small smile.

— and the world would be changed.

* * *

" —a broken rib, a pierced lung, and a concussion. She should have called me immediately instead of being so proud to think she could handle it. I suppose she got that trait from you, Albus?"

"Indeed." Dumbledore's tone was terse and didn't invite further commentary. The disapproving Madam Curfin frowned. He could hear it through the curtain blocking them and Hermione's bed from view of the rest of Hogwarts population.

"Have you found what made these cuts on her arm?"

A pause full of hesitation from the Healer. "Dark Magic," she finally said reluctantly. "Lacerated clean through the bone in some areas. Three goblets of Skele-Gro and it has still not healed fully. I will have to wait until she wakes up to give her another dose…"

"But?" Dumbledore interjected into the second pause from the Healer.

" _But,"_ continued Madam Curfin as reluctantly as before, "I don't believe it will ever heal completely until I can determine what kind of Dark Magic caused it. She was delirious when I revived her magically. Babbling about monsters and Death. I had to Stun her to force a Sleeping Drought down her throat."

Tom started, immediately glad that his Disillusionment Spell held true. Two other patients were in the Hospital Wing and he didn't like the outcome of what would happen if one of them alerted Dumbledore he was spying on his private talk with the Healer about his niece.

 _So she was attacked by Death?_ he thought with a frown. It didn't make sense, yet he knew Hermione was never one to babble about big, scary monsters in nightmares.

 _But he didn't know Hermione, did he?_

But he also knew a mere nightmare couldn't have made her the waif, corpse-like figure he had transported to the Hospital Wing after breakfast that morning. He had thought she was still in that mood of hers and trying to avoid him, and he had been amused throughout breakfast at her curious moods, not knowing that her blood was slowly seeping into the mattress as she lay half-dead in her dormitory.

It had been a shocking sight, one that he knew would never leave his memory. He could still see her marble white skin in sharp clarity in the back of his mind, so accustomed to her skin being dark and tan.

Seeing the vibrant chestnut curls limp and caked with blood from the back of her head, he had to admit his fascination with it to himself. It had always fascinated him. Her hair. The flyway curls that refused to be tamed. Refused to be suppressed. The opposite of her cool and controlled personality. Crackling with energy while the head it was attached to was so _bloody_ calm. Now, it was probably dry and untangled, the blood washed and brushed out of it by Madam Curfin.

He hadn't known someone so petite could have so much blood.

Tom's head snapped up when Dumbledore spoke again.

"Has she said anything else? Anything that could give us a clue to what attacked her?"

Madam Curfin sighed wearily. "She gave me the barest of details, Albus. A monster she named Death attacked her in a nightmare. She believes her broken rib and pierced lung was from being thrown into a tree, and the monster twisted her arm." Another sigh. "You will have to speak to her, Albus. I'm very worried. If she doesn't tell us what kind of Dark magic attacked her she may be irrevocably scarred. You tell her that I cannot heal her unless she tells us the truth."

"You believe my niece is lying?" Dumbledore asked, and Tom's head jerked back from the ice coating his words. He had never heard the Transfiguration Professor so angry.

Madam Curfin huffed. In the outlines he could see through the curtain, he saw her turn toward Dumbledore, hands on her hips.

"Monsters and Death?" she exclaimed disbelievingly. "It's preposterous. I don't care if she was dabbling in Dark magic, as long as she tells me what kind so I can heal her. If her classmates hadn't went to her this morning, she would have died, Albus! I've never seen a Dark magic injury this bad before." Her voice lowered, turned desperate for the Deputy Headmaster to understand. "I… I don't know if I can heal it, Albus. Neither do I believe even the Healers at St. Mungo's could. She will always be tainted with it. There will be magic that will be forever out of reach to her now."

Tom held his breath, eyes and ears riveted to the conversation filtered through a thin curtain. _Magic lost to her…_

He looked at his hand, remembering a time when it had worn a large, clunky gold ring. Splitting his soul the school-year before had lost him the ability to do the hardest of Light magic. Now Hermione Dumbledore was affected with the same fate. If Madam Curfin was right, and she had been dabbling in Dark magic, he wondered what kind if it had not only backfired on her so viciously but taken away the magic her family was so renowned for.

He told himself his willingness to teach her stemmed from wanting to make her a better, more knowledgeable Death Eater.

* * *

"I wasn't doing Dark magic," she whispered.

Professor Dumbledore nodded grimly. "I know, Hermione. Unfortunately, it does explain the wounds."

She glared then suddenly struggled to sit up, the heavy bandages on her arm along with the multiple blankets hindering her. She huffed when her back was finally firmly against the headboard. "I _didn't_ do Dark magic, sir." She ground out _sir_ like it was diseased.

He leaned forward, her so-called uncle putting his hand over hers. She stared at it. "I know, Hermione," he repeated.

Realization dawned. Her memory. Dumbledore patting her hand while she was in this same Hospital Wing, revived from being Petrified only hours before by Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape.

 _He had_ _**known.** _

She closed her eyes, head falling back against the wall while the younger Albus Dumbledore watched.

 _**Of course.** _

_Of course,_ she thought again, amazed she hadn't come to the conclusion sooner. She should have known the Dumbledore in her time would have recognized her, knew who she was. He had already met her and she had told him her last name. _But who else had known her identity? Minerva? Hagrid? Professor Snape?_

 _Lord Voldemort?_

How many people had known that she would be sent back to the past to be House mates with Tom Riddle? How many people had neglected to tell her this _obviously_ crucial piece of information after Voldemort was defeated?

 _Because, let her tell you, it would've been a bloody good thing to know._

She tried to remember if Professor McGonagall had looked at her oddly at some point. Had she misspoken or said anything odd while she thought she was asleep like Dumbledore had? She came up with nothing.

 _She must have been better at hiding it._

She hadn't had much contact with the half-giant thus far, and she thought it unlikely that Hagrid wouldn't mention anything to her in the future since she spent so much time with him. She had it on good authority he was a lousy liar, and if he had known she would be traveling to Tom Riddle's seventh year, he definitely would have acted more suspicious around her — just like he always did when he was trying to hide something or lying.

So Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had known and hadn't told her.

She fought not to lash out at Dumbledore as he sat beside her hospital bed, trying to remember that this Dumbledore hadn't committed the sin yet. His manipulative bastard future self would.

"What should we tell people?" she asked quietly, her eyes still closed. His hand retreated from hers. She opened one eye, peeking out at him through her lashes. He looked less grim now that her anger had passed.

"Rumors have spread already," he said. He looked away from her, eyes unusually clear of humor. "The general consensus through the population is Grindewald."

"Oh."

She wanted to reach out to him and comfort the wizard who looked so forlorn, so she did. He stiffened when she put her hand on top of his, looking at her as if she had just transformed in front of his eyes. She held his gaze steadily. After a moment, his other hand came to rest on top of hers and they watched the clouds move outside the window, their minds both on one thing.

The future.

* * *

" _Mr. Riddle will be escorting you to your classes until your wounds have healed."_

She gritted her teeth. A worst sentence could never have been spoken in the history of the whole universe.

It wasn't bad enough that she was attacked by a monster, forced to drink four goblets of the vile Skele-Gro and then put on bed rest under Madam Curfin's hawk eye for three days. The Healer was infinitely worse than the persnickety Madam Pomfrey ever was. Apparently, however, she hadn't suffered enough for all her sins. She just _had_ to be stuck with Riddle.

Had she committed genocide in a past life? Tortured and killed kittens? Gotten into a tiff with a centaur? Given the naïve Adam an apple?

Because, if not, Fate was a sick, sick bastard.

She swore to herself she'd get him back. _Just you wait_ , she thought, frowning at the sight of Riddle holding her book bag. She would make the too fickle Fate pay.

She would enact her revenge starting with the Founders book. When she found it that was. That was a crucial step to not only her freedom from Tom Riddle, but to determine her wand's fire starting abilities. Although no matter how much she needed it, however, the search for the elusive thief, and through them the Founders book, had so far been fruitless.

She didn't know exactly when the Founders book was stolen, which was a definite hindrance to her _find thief and kill_ goal. The last time Hermione had seen it, she had thrown it into her locked—but unwarded—trunk that any second year could open, and since she hadn't needed it until three days later there were numerous times the priceless book could have been stolen.

It had been a useless three days in the hospital. Whoever had taken the book had warded thoroughly against it being found magically. Also unfortunate for her, she hadn't thought about warding the book itself from potential thieves.

She hadn't even thought of the Founders book being stolen. It was a foreign thought to her. Like talking dogs or timid Hufflepuffs.

Hermione didn't know who could have stolen the book, either. Belatedly, she had put an Anti-Theft charm on her trunk — and several other spells on her four-poster as a precaution — but the book thief hadn't come back. As her trunk was in the girls dormitory, it was only logical that a girl had stolen the book, but of the few girls she was acquainted with none seemed the type to steal. There was also the possibility the book thief was a professor, which she frankly thought was too absurd to look into, much less contemplate.

 _But then again someone stealing the Founders book had never crossed her mind._

Professor or student—whoever the thief was, she felt a sort of kinship to them. An object so priceless, filled with extraordinary magic, could do that to a person. She readily recognized that only kleptomaniacs and the total three people who had read _Hogwarts, A History_ would have reason to steal it. Added to the fact that she had never been stolen from before, and her first theft was looking even more extraordinary.

Of course, the kinship with the thief would be broken whenever she found them and hexed him or her to one of Saturn's moons.

Speaking of hexing, she would stay in the past and happily give the thief her blessing if Tom Riddle would stop being so damn _helpful_.

It wasn't right. The darkest wizard since Grindewald shouldn't be happily carrying her book bag or offer to aid her in making a spell when she had mentioned she was working on a spell to tweak the Clarify spell for handwriting to help her become ambidextrous. Her right arm was still in a magical cast — which itched like _hell_ , by the way — and she hated having to fix her atrocious left-hand handwriting before turning in every worksheet in class.

It was enough for her uneasiness to return when she remembered that they were close to finishing the spell.

Lord Voldemort shouldn't be doing something so _nice._ He should be torturing puppies and making fun of Moaning Myrtle. He should be doing that, and yet he wasn't. It wasn't so much irritating as it was at first. The many strange things he did were more confusing than anything now. It was as if he had taken the words _Being kind throws people off balance_ and had exaggerated them to an extreme, dizzying and disturbing degree.

For example, he had the uncanny ability to anticipate her needs. Immediately holding her arm to steady her when the stairs they walked on moved suddenly, or ignoring her — many and loud — protests and walking with her to the library or any number of little things. She had thought at first that maybe he had already learned Legilimency and was using it on her their every second together in order to know what she wanted and when. Unfortunately, it was impossible to know unless she wanted to brave Lord Voldemort's unsurpassed ability in the Dark Arts and his capacity to keep secrets and sweetly ask if he was reading her mind.

 _Because, of course, he_ _**certainly** _ _wouldn't mind her taking a little interest in him._

His goodwill and concern for her wellbeing would almost be less confusing if she thought he was trying to murder her.

* * *

Abraxas yawned, scratching at his chin for what seemed to be the thousandth time just that morning. No one ever told him being a portrait was so bloody _itchy_ while he was alive. If they had, he would have never gotten the damn thing painted in the first place.

He had told Cygnus this once, in a fit of boredom within the usually unoccupied study, and he had laughed at his notion, citing: "Don't be modest, Abraxas. You love attention and knew dying would not cure your vanity."

He hated bloody Cygnus.

Unfortunately, hatred between pigment and brushstrokes was damn near uncomfortable, especially during the few uncivilized brawls they had gotten into over the years. Neither had known their paint could flake so easily, or that it would hurt so damn much.

 _Crack!_

"Bloody fucking hell!"

While he had cursed at the loud interruption of the quiet of the study, Cygnus had merely opened his eyes from his nap in his stiff green chair. _Prat._ To compensate for his unusual lack of cool calm, Abraxas straightened importantly in his seat, looking down at the house-elf standing in the middle of what used to be his study with an imperious and disapproving eye.

He hated the little buggers and their squeaky voices. He didn't know how many Headache Potions he had taken while he was alive because of the ugly little cretins and, unfortunately enough for him, he would likely need more after this revolting creature left.

He held back a sigh at the thought. He would have to visit his portrait in St. Mungo's again, and he _hated_ that diseased-riddled place. _All those sick people and not one good looking bird in the place!_

He barely repressed a shudder at the thought.

The creature was dressed in a fluffy blue towel, tied like a toga. Watery eyes looked around the room for occupants, before looking straight at him.

Abraxas almost jumped at the attention. Hardly anyone ever came into the study just for the portraits, excepting the visit the week before from his grandson and the nitwits, and none had ever looked at him with such… _nothingness._ It was the only way he could describe the elf's eyes. Watery, they glinted strangely, the lit candelabras reflecting their quiet desperation. It waddled forward, its little legs too small for its body. If he was correct in his assumption, the house-elf was female. He had never been too skilled at guessing their sex, nor was he usually inclined to, but he figured it was an apt thing to do when he didn't recognize it as the one house-elf the Malfoy Manor had left after the Ministry of Magic had seized his ancestral home.

"What Mistress wants, Mistress gets," the little creature chanted to itself, eyes turned from desperation to determination as it reached for them with small clawed hands.

Abraxas was only mildly reassured by Cygnus raucous stream of obscenities—very loud, mind you—as their portraits were dropped into the darkness of a small beaded bag.


	8. Act Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I am not Harry Potter, nor do I own his emo self. I wish I owned Voldemort, but alas.

"Marriage is neither heaven nor hell, it is simply purgatory."

 **Abraham Lincoln**

* * *

He looked at the firm set of the Headmistress' lips and almost wished he was back fighting Lord Voldemort. Anything but having to take her scathing glare with only a grim face, gold earring and a desk between them.

Interim Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt repressed an aggrieved sigh while also resisting the urge to call in his secretary for a bottle of Ogden's finest. It wasn't like him to feel the need to drink his worries away, but what the Headmistress was asking of him was almost driving him to dunk his head in a vat of the stuff.

Besides, he was only the Interim Minister of Magic. Couldn't she have waited until his position in the Ministry wasn't as precarious and brought this disastrous request when he was firmly ensconced as Minister, when no one was debating his every burp?

Couldn't she have just let his Aurors deal with it instead of making such a fuss and mess? But, no, she had to come into his sparsely furnished office and bring him complicated demands thinly veiled as requests and expect him to accept them because of their past in the war.

He looked at Minerva, contemplating the threat she held in her words. He immediately decided she would back them up to the most extreme degree, and, whatever it was, it would be disastrous to what could be a promising career as Minister. She had been a steadfast compatriot in the Order of the Phoenix, always there when a fighter was needed, and her prim and proper posture didn't fool him in the least to the vicious tiger she was underneath the heavy cloak and miles of tartan.

 _Tabby, his ass._

It was also what had gotten him into this mess—Minerva McGonagall was and always would be a fighter. And his biggest problem, besides the Hermione one, was that she would _never_ stop fighting.

"I'm sorry, Minerva, but I cannot grant your request," he said, knowing she wouldn't take it as an answer. She probably had already started tracing Hermione Granger-Dumbledore's steps on her own.

The words _treading on thin ground_ entered his mind when her lips tightened into a line so straight they disappeared.

Her eyes flashed. Kingsley believed if Minerva had been in her Animagus form, her tail would be whipping angrily as she hissed and spit at him.

The reaction wouldn't be as out of proportion as most would think.

The news that what the magical community at large considered the most inconsequential of the famed Golden Trio was missing had been like a blow to the solar plexus to Kingsley Shacklebolt when he had first been informed. Indeed, the newspapers still would not adequately understand the threat that was Hermione Granger-Dumbledore if this debacle got out. Luckily, only choice Ministry officials along with Harry Potter and choice friends knew of her _real_ reason for disappearing, not the tropical vacation at an undisclosed location the world was told about.

The rest of the world might think Hermione Granger was just another sidekick, head always buried in books and obnoxious attitude held high, but Kingsley knew the real Hermione Granger, now Dumbledore, rather than how she was portrayed—or _not_ portrayed, as the case may be—in the newspapers. It was hard _not_ to know somebody when they had saved your life, as she had his when getting Harry Potter away from 4 Privet Drive the summer before.

The fact that the same logical, quick-witted, and terrifyingly smart witch that he owed a Life Debt was now practically in Lord Voldemort's hands, able to change the outcome of the war he had just fought by one divulgence to her new Lord, was enough to send chills down his spine. Her very existence in the past threatened the wizarding world's hard won victory. In fact, there would be _no_ victory if she did what he feared she would do.

No nightmare could compare to the knowledge she held the future of the world in her small, easily persuaded, hands.

"Time-travel falls under Ministry, namely Unspeakable, jurisdiction," he continued, ignoring both the chill in his belly and the hot glare aimed at him. "I cannot allow you to investigate Miss Granger-Dumbledore's disappearance any longer, no matter her connection to Hogwarts now and her connection to you in the past. You just don't have the qualifications to aptly investigate this unique situation. I'm sorry, Minerva."

He was about as sorry as a scorpion to its prey, and Minerva knew it.

She straightened in her chair—how, he knew not—as she was already as straight as a board. Only uptight, cold prudes could pull off that sort of impression, and the Headmistress nailed it on the head. He would never say that out loud within her vicinity, however. He particularly enjoyed his bits attached, thank you very much. Her eyes didn't flash, but burned with a fierce determination he had never seen before in all his years of knowing her.

"If that is how you see it, Kingsley." He could have flinched at the vitriol with which she said his first name, but checked his self-control in time. He supposed he deserved it for using her first name in response, but it was still disheartening to hear just the same. "However, there may be the matter of the upcoming vote concerning the permanency of your status as Minister of Magic. I wonder…" She raised an eyebrow, and he felt his throat plummet to the bottom of his stomach. "How will your election fare without the support of Hogwarts?"

Kingsley, so used to be unflinchingly cool during times of action, involuntarily widened his eyes as he spluttered and his self-control disappeared. " _Blackmail_ , Minerva? Have you gone mental? I didn't think you would be one to go so low."

Minerva McGonagall sniffed, looking above her spectacles at him imperiously. "I already informed you I will do anything for the Ministry to stay out of Hogwarts business. Our friendship included, though I _had_ hoped to partner with the Ministry."

"You know you cannot do this, Minerva," Kingsley said plainly and firmly, feeling phantom sweat on his brow. "Blackmailing a Ministry official gets you a straight shot to a ten-by-ten cell in Azkaban. And over what? _Hermione Granger?_ Minerva, she could change everything if she isn't found and elimina—"

As the tail of her cloak disappeared before his office door slammed shut, rattling the pane of the magical window, he reconsidered his decision to not call in his secretary. Kingsley Shacklebolt trusted his gut, and his gut was telling him that he had gone too damn far. He would need a stiff drink before figuring out what to do next.

* * *

 _Knock, knock, knock._

Harry looked away from the chessboard—where Ron was beating him _fantastically_ —and into the kitchen where Mrs. Weasley was cooking a large lunch for him and the Weasley family. His chess partner didn't even flinch at the interruption, so concentrated was he on the game.

He could barely see the door opening, but he heard Mrs. Weasley's joyous cry as she greeted the Burrow's newest guest.

"Minerva!" Harry sat up straighter at the mention of the Headmistress. Heart thundering in his chest, he got up and, without waiting on Ron or his next move, headed toward the kitchen. Professor McGonagall would have news on Hermione and her recent visit to Kingsley by now. It had been two days since she had told him of her upcoming visit to the Ministry to get Hermione's time-traveling case away from the Unspeakables. "How wonderful to see you again! Here, dearie, let's get this heavy cloak off of you and—"

Both Harry and Mrs. Weasley's greeting stopped abruptly when they saw who walked into the kitchen of the Burrow after Professor McGonagall.

"Luna," Mrs. Weasley finally said, face emitting her pleasure as she grabbed the girl into a tight hug, almost crushing her. It was a known fact in the Weasley household that she had been unsuccessfully trying to bring Luna Lovegood to the Burrow to stay. The young witch had been orphaned during the battle, and though Professor McGonagall offered Hogwarts to those who had no homes or families, Mrs. Weasley hated seeing the girl stuck in the lonely castle.

Harry, however, hadn't forgotten that Hermione had been one of the ones 'stuck' in the castle, though everyone else seemed to have forgotten it even when she was there. But Mrs. Weasley had never invited her to the Burrow for anything longer than dinner.

He had been thinking about it over the last few weeks, wondering when everybody—including him—had forgotten one of his best friends. And though Harry was not one for research, or usually anything that had to do with deep thinking on an abstract level, like Hermione had been, he thought he had figured out when the exclusion of Hermione Granger had started.

It had been subtle at first, so subtle that for a while he had believed they had never excluded her from anything. It was then, sitting in the glow of knowing that he had never intentionally or unintentionally ignored Hermione, that he remembered the exact moment it had happened.

Unlike everyone else the day he was brought from the Dursley's to the Burrow, no one had asked her if _she_ was okay, if she had been hurt or injured. It was common knowledge that she had faced Lord Voldemort himself, that he had flew after Kingsley and her Polyjuiced form because of Kingsley's position as a talented Auror.

But no one had asked her, had bothered to inquire if she had been injured. No one had even comforted her when Moody's death had been announced.

They had all just _assumed_ that she was okay and that she had no need of comforting from their combined past experiences with Lord Voldemort. They had assumed because she had always handled herself marginally better than everyone else, but Harry knew that was not totally true. She might not have been hurt physically, but emotionally was another story. Hermione had always had an enormous capacity to stay out of being involved emotionally on the outside, and instead empathize with a person or situation inside.

And Harry had seen her tears, had seen the way she sobbed into her hands, and ignored it. Ignored her in favor of anguishing on his own, always believing she could take care of herself. Always believing she could handle anything on her own, so much more intelligent than him.

He had hated himself in that moment of realization.

Harry had always thought Gryffindors were supposed to take care of their own. The Weasley's did, and he took comfort in that. But they were also selfish, as no one had taken care of Hermione the Muggleborn sidekick, as much as it pained him to admit what the papers continually called her. Harry Potter's friend, the Muggleborn Hermione Granger. But it now seemed fitting to admit it when he had been one of the people to treat her as such.

 _If he had just_ _**done** _ _something._ _**Anything.** _

"We'll be calling all the Order together," Professor McGonagall said, and pointedly sat at the head of the table. She looked up at Mrs. Weasley, eyes stark full of determination. "Except for Kingsley and Tonks—"

Mrs. Weasley put her hand over her mouth at her slipup.

"Except for Kingsley and any Aurors the Order still have left in Magical Law Enforcement who will back up Kingsley," the unswayable Professor McGonagall soldiered on.

"But—but _why_ , Minerva?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a plea, freckles bright in contrast to her pale skin. "Why do we need the Order for this? There isn't much we can do from here."

"Because we will receive no help from the Ministry, and likewise they will get nowhere without us and our knowledge of Miss Granger." Professor McGonagall tapped her nose decisively. "And we must get her away from Tom Riddle, Molly. She's in trouble and needs our help."

Inside the cheerful Burrow, Harry felt as if the Whomping Willow had just slammed into his stomach. It wasn't fair that when they had just gotten rid of the evil that had dogged them since their first year, that it reached out and grabbed Hermione once more. It should have taken him. He should've been the one to be kidnapped from Hogwarts and not stuck and unable to do anything inside the comfortable, homey Burrow. Not her, never her.

Luna seemed to catch his melancholy from the doorway of the kitchen, filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, and her smile, though sad, was luminous as she walked to him and rested her hand on his arm in a small comforting gesture he took heart in. Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall looked on as she looked up to him—a foot shorter than he—and spoke. "Hermione doesn't need a hero now, Harry. She has become her own hero."

She didn't know it, but in that moment, her blue eyes, young but wise beyond measure, could make him believe anything she said.

"She needs friends."

* * *

"A delightful girl, isn't she, Tom?"

"Very, sir," Tom said, dutifully telling Professor Slughorn what he wanted to hear.

Slughorn puffed out his chest. "Yes, yes. Albus says he was just as shocked when she was Sorted into Slytherin. I never doubted it for a second, however. A wonderful girl, and marks to rival yours, eh, Tom? You'll have worthy competition for the best marks this year, won't you?"

"I will do my best, sir. It's all I can do."

The small group of the most talented—and most influential—students all sat in Slughorn's luxuriously decorated chambers, watching as the future of the wizarding world was decided. It was what Slughorn's little meetings were meant for. To sit and bask in the glow of Slughorn and the power he held and the influential people he knew while you also made your own contacts within the small group. Those included here would use the Slug Club as an introduction card to the most prestigious of events for their whole lifetime, using it as a stepping stone to more worthy goals. Mostly political, Slughorn held a lot of power under his chubby chin.

Professor Horace Slughorn kept up with the compliments worthy of Merlin himself, almost making Hermione Dumbledore out as a messiah of Slytherin House with his praises as the night wore on. Tom could tell the prided Head of Slytherin was overcompensating for the year before when he had asked his Professor for information on Horcruxes—information that was never given. He could tell the Professor was slightly wary of him now and that he hadn't been the best choice to go to when he had needed information.

Tom had already debated the merits of erasing Slughorn's memory of the event and ultimately decided against it. Slughorn could have a very selective memory when he so chose, and would undoubtedly pretend he knew nothing if Dumbledore continued poking around into his background. He knew the old fool was probably already trying to find anything to discredit him, but also knew Slughorn would rather die than admit his prized Slytherin had asked about Horcruxes. If there was anything he could trust, it was Slughorn's pride.

"And you've been spending some time with her, haven't you boy?" Slughorn winked and a few of the boys sitting around Slughorn laughed. Tom, having known what was coming, forced a blush onto his pale cheeks. Proving his predictability once more, Slughorn was delighted, and his big belly jiggled as his booming laugh rang out through his chambers.

"Are you bringing her to the first party of the year?" asked a Ravenclaw sixth year curiously. Tom wanted to Crucio him for being so impertinent—and bringing the matter to Slughorn's attention. There would be no telling what sort of torment he would be forced to endure now.

"Of course!" Slughorn said delightedly, hooking into the idea like a shark to a piece of raw seal meat. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, a bright gleam in his eye that did nothing to console Tom. "Two of the brightest Hogwarts students brought together here. And rightfully so! She'd make a fine companion, Tom."

 _Merlin, he was already planning out the seating chart for the wedding._

* * *

"Good morning."

She jumped and immediately flushed as Riddle slowly looked down at the wand firmly poking him in the chest. A flick of her wrist and it disappeared back up the sleeve of her robe. _Pity that her humiliation couldn't disappear just as easily._ "Sorry," she muttered, face as red as Ginny Weasley's hair. She couldn't look him in the eye, so turned to look at the Slytherin common room door. It was too early for anyone to be coming through, but her self-esteem seemed likely to run away.

However unusual it was for her to be as jumpy as a rabbit, it wasn't unusual for Tom Riddle to surprise her. He had been doing it since she had come to the past. He'd simply appear from nowhere, like a malevolent cloud that waited until you left the house without a coat or umbrella, then emptied a monsoon upon you. It was starting to become a huge pain in her arse. No self-reliable girl needed to see a ready and available piece of meat like Riddle every time she needed some heavy lifting done.

"Understandable, actually," Riddle said as he stepped back to sit in the softly cushioned green chair across from her. Almost everything was green in the common room and gave the room a general feel of malevolence, or if one was used to it, nice ambience for plotting unsavory deeds. Like Riddle, perchance. She glanced at him, humiliation receding as she became interested in his odd behavior. Lord Voldemort not hexing her for leaving a wand-tip size bruise in his chest? Inconceivable.

He merely smiled at her interest, irritating her with his too perfect— _but evil_ —self.

"With what happened last week, I mean," he elaborated, hands resting comfortably on the arms of his chair. The soft green glow of the common room made his black hair shine, and made him seem all the more evil with the things she knew about him. "The attack on you. Anyone would be jumpy after such a occurrence, and you have very quick reflexes already."

"Right," was all she said. Hermione didn't want to go into her lack of unreal dreams, however. She could and _would_ happily live with her favorite aunt forever—Auntie Denial.

She also didn't feel comfortable with Lord Voldemort, aka the Dark Lord, appraising her reflexes positively. It was just tempting fate to bring more injustice upon her head.

The uncomfortableness between them increased, because anything involving Hermione Granger-Dumbledore always became uncomfortable given enough time.

"Have you been invited to Slughorn's party yet?" he finally asked, when she had resorted to picking at her nails to get away from his unwavering gaze.

"Hm? No," she said absently.

"Would you like to go with me, then?"

Hermione's heart stopped for an agonizingly slow second, then started beating twice as fast in her chest. She didn't look up from her nails as she reflected on the oddness of what she had thought would be a normal, boring morning.

Hadn't Tom Riddle been renowned for his charm and general suaveness? _Well,_ she thought, _if charm consisted of sounding like a fifteen year old Harry Potter, Tom Riddle had it in spades. They had obviously been misinformed of Lord Voldemort's —_

At the wayward thought, she glanced up quickly and wasn't too surprised to see his predatory eyes fade into a teenage hopefulness.

 _Game and point,_ she thought, holding back a rueful smile. They hadn't been misinformed after all.

"I suppose." She leaned over to pick up her book bag as footsteps sounded on the stairs, and smiled at him as she stood. "I have nothing better to do."

 _Of course,_ she thought as she headed out of the Slytherin common room with Cygnus, _Riddle had never played with a Granger-Dumbledore._

* * *

" _I have nothing better to do."_

Tom seethed inwardly. The nerve of the girl, only accepting him because she had already finished her homework while the majority of the female population would beg on their knees for the chance to land him!

She obviously didn't know who was in charge at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Tom would delight in showing Hermione Dumbledore just where she stood in the hierarchy.

He carefully pushed his rage away, compartmentalizing it within himself in order of priority. And, right then his priority was on the Founders book successfully taken from the witch that was quickly becoming a thorn in his side. At least now he was being compensated for having to deal with the cool, infuriating know-it-all, he thought as he caressed the aged black leather cover. He sat on his closed off four-poster bed in the seventh year dormitory, feeling victorious once again at the prized treasure that had fallen into his lap. It was a sign, he knew, that his plans would come to fruition.

It was the first time since he had acquired the book that he had been able to study it; his dorm mates bothering him, schoolwork, and the esteemed Dumbledore witch had been taking up all his spare time since school had started. He would need to work twice as fast in the upcoming weeks to bring his followers up to task and ready them for their first year out of Hogwarts and his plans for said year.

Tom Riddle rubbed the Founders symbol, taking special care with the dull green star over the other House colors represented. This was his birthright, one of many he would find and collect once he left school. It was just his luck that this one fell right into his hands, as he hadn't expected to find such a valuable object in the new pureblood's trunk when he had searched it. He had, however, found the things he had expected to find. Like expensive dresses, jewels and robes. What he hadn't expected, besides the Founders book, was that instead of being her neat and orderly self, the dresses and jewels were thrown haphazardly around, no care taken for them, and on top of it all a mountain of pristinely ordered books.

The pureblood witches of Slytherin would die of shock if they looked inside Hermione's trunk.

To complement the innate curiosity of the witch was the way she had warded her four-poster bed tightly and thoroughly, but neglected to ward her trunk at all. It had taken him three days to get through the wards on her bed, wondering all the while what she was hiding behind there to protect so soundly. If he hadn't had to hide and leave before the female prefects did their nightly checks of the dormitories, he would have gotten through them much sooner. He had no doubt that he was stronger magically than Hermione Dumbledore, and the way he had taken her wards down and put them back afterwards without any sign of his tampering was just another sign of his genius.

Hermione Dumbledore as strong as _him_? He scoffed at the thought.

She may be strong, intelligent and mildly pretty, but she was no match for Lord Voldemort. Besides, everyone knew witches could never be as strong as a wizard. Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff had been an exception to the fact, not the rule. It was widely known that witches were more susceptible to their emotions, getting carried away and pulled through their current when cool, level-headed logic that only wizards could bring to the table was needed. Witches could never be as strong as wizards. It was as simple as day and night. It was also why he would be keeping the number of his female Death Eaters to a minimum. He didn't want worthless emotions like _love_ getting in the way of what needed to be done. You sometimes had to be ruthless to bring the world to order, and _love_ wouldn't bring the peace he so desired for the wizarding community—nay, the whole world.

The quiet of the day infiltrated his closed and warded four-poster bed, an eerie stillness, almost smothering, blanketing him and his treasure. He gave the aged cover a last loving caress before opening it for the first time, a feeling of euphoria washing over him at the knowledge he would gain. It did not matter that Dumbledore had seen it first. It was his now and he would be damned if he let the fact the Dumbledores had read it before him become a deterrent.

The first page was blank, and the next and the next and the next and —

His eye twitched.

It was empty.

* * *

It happened just as she walked out of the Magical and Non-Magical Species T through V section of the library, her Care of Magical Creatures homework still unfinished. Hermione didn't know what she had been thinking, believing she could catch up to the students who were a year ahead of her in the course and not protesting when Slughorn had given out the schedules. She should have just told Uncle Albus and had the slot emptied.

She stopped at the thought, wondering when exactly she had started referring to Professor Dumbledore as _Uncle Albus_. It was inappropriate, for sure. That was when it hit her—right as she was debating the merits of continuing to refer to him as family, even if only in her head.

A gasp left her lips, a flash of white blinding her. She stepped back, blinking in stunned disbelief and wondering just what the _hell_ that was, and fell flat on her arse when another sensation hit her. It felt as if half of her was being submerged in water, cold as ice but still managing to be warm. Like she had been burned, but didn't feel the pain yet. Her book tumbled out of her arms, pages folded against the marble floor. She grabbed her stomach, her chest, her head, anywhere she could as she was bombarded with images, feelings, and more of the hot-cold water sensation. It dampened out her fear, making the strange new feelings intensify. They were exactly like hers—wonder, fear, and overwhelming confusion—but amplified to an extreme degree that almost made her pass out from sensory overload.

For the finale, an invisible steel fist punched her in the gut.

 _Because that was_ _**exactly** _ _what she needed._

* * *

"What are you doing on the floor, Dumbledore?"

"Interpretive dance," she said through clenched teeth as she held tight to the magical cast covering her arm. "Now help me up. And stop rhyming," she added for good measure.

Cygnus helped her up, then carefully picked up the bent and folded library book and smoothed out the dents before closing it. He put it under his arm as she spelled the dust and dirt from the floor off her uniform.

"What happened to you, then?"

"An unpleasant piece of nastiness," she said, and grabbed the book.

This day was definitely not turning out as she had expected.

"Okay…" Cygnus said slowly, following her as she stormed out of the Species section and back to the table they had nabbed from a group of Ravenclaws. Being a Slytherin was kind of fun sometimes, as you didn't need an excuse to be a jerk. People expected it.

He sat down next to her, looking from her bright blue cast—one color fits all—to her face, his own face full of worry. Hermione ignored it, because it was either ignore it or punch him in the face.

The only sound in the hushed library besides the scratching of quills on parchment was the sound of Hermione's heart, which she was sure everybody within twenty feet of the large round table they sat at could hear. She fixated on her breathing, trying to even it as she stared at the bright red cover of _Fantastic Beasts and How to Find Them_. She had no clue as to what happened, and when she described the episode to Cygnus, he also knew not what it could have been, though he was able to shed an interesting light on her worries, shedding light on her real life nightmare.

"You don't think it was another attack, do you?" he asked, looking around the library as if he expected Grindewald to jump out from behind a corner and yell, "Gotcha!"

"No," she said flatly. _Grindewald_ wasn't a possibility, but she knew something else that might be. Dumbledore's words had been correct. The rest of Hogwarts was firmly ensconced in the belief that Grindewald had attacked her using his vast knowledge of the Dark Arts.

Hermione wanted to inform them that there was no possible way that he could have done so from such a distance, and that no Dark Arts texts mentioned being chased around by a demon from hell, but knew they would put her words to the babbling of a hysterical witch. No one believed witches in this day and age, not even the women, and her firm belief that it had been a _monster_ and not Grindewald wouldn't be accepted by anyone other than lunatics.

She sighed. She had the faintest notion that _she_ was quickly becoming a lunatic.

* * *

Tom looked at the burnt and tattered green cloth, still smoking faintly, then back to his left forearm where a large dark burn, the shape still unidentifiable, sat then back to the remains of the hangings of his four-poster bed.

There was no telling what somebody would do if pushed hard enough.

* * *

The news spread faster than wildfire through Hogwarts that Hermione Dumbledore had been asked to the Slug Club's first party of the year (otherwise known as the Fall Opener) by everyone's favorite Head Boy.

Apparently, this had been expected by everybody _except_ Hermione Dumbledore. Even her so-called 'uncle' had known.

What hadn't been expected, however, was how hard the news would be taken by certain people when she accepted—no matter how anticipated it was.

Bedlam. At least with the witches. Crying, glaring, and giving her the cold shoulder. One aspiring Slytherin fourth year even had the temerity to suggest that she had used a love potion.

 _Right. Because she_ _**wanted** _ _to be stuck with the Devil incarnate for an evening of bad punch and even worse music._

Thankfully, since she held status in Riddle's court, no one bothered her overly much about the pending date she now considerably regretted agreeing to. Abraxas and Cygnus were just helpful enough to give a running commentary of what happened outside of her safe—well, as safe as it could be with Riddle in it—bubble.

There was one thing that was bothering her, however, about the inside of her status-filled and relatively safe bubble.

Randall Wilkes.

He had taken over Abraxas's spot at the Slytherin table, pushing him out and taking the right hand of Voldemort for himself. She had no idea why it had happened, but one day after a long day of N.E.W.T. classes, Abraxas had been relegated to sitting across from Hermione just like at the Sorting Feast. And although she was relieved not to be the target of his glaring practice everyday anymore, she was worried about what it meant for her, sitting on the left side of Voldemort.

She knew he was already fashioning Death Eaters and planning world domination, but did he have favorites already?

It was a stupid question, because it was obviously so, but she couldn't help asking herself that every time she saw Randall Wilkes smirk at Abraxas. She also couldn't help the little twinge of pity for Abraxas at how horrible Wilkes was to him now.

She squashed it quickly. He was a _Death Eater_ after all, of course he would be mean. Death Eaters generally tended to deviate into the area, and Abraxas would spawn one of the worst Death Eaters. But she couldn't help it. Her sense of unfairness seemed to extend to every being, evil or good.

 _However, her delicate sensibilities wouldn't stop her from smashing her goblet over Wilkes's head the next time he smirked as if_ _**she** _ _should be jealous of him._

From an outsiders perspective, she would think nothing of the seat change, the significance would be lost on her, along with the traded glances and obvious deference to Riddle in just about everything. She had known before arriving at Hogwarts that Slytherin was the House that would settle your future, that wouldn't pamper you—too much—and would help you along the path to wherever you desired, using so-called friends as stepping stones. And as Tom Riddle had the likelihood of becoming a prestigious figure outside Hogwarts, it was no wonder Slytherins were ponying up to be in his circle. The rest of the Houses only saw the nice boy he was now, not what he would become after Hogwarts like the Slytherins. It was also why Cygnus was partly civil to Abraxas though he disliked him so intensely. He knew he might need something of Abraxas's in the future—be it contacts or shrunken heads.

But Hermione, knowing all of this and _what_ Riddle would become, was getting tired of being a part of a hierarchy she was unaware. She didn't know how long she could take it anymore, and knew that when she snapped, it wouldn't be pretty. She sat on his _left_ side, for Merlin's sake! What did that mean for her?

 _Well,_ she thought complacently as she spooned cereal into her mouth, _it wasn't because she was his girlfriend, as the position had been hers—and only hers—since she had arrived and she was most certainly not Tom Riddle's girlfriend. Or any sort of friend._

She hated the confusion brought when her traitorous heart jumped at the thought of being Riddle's girlfriend. It didn't help that immediately after, the Devil himself glanced at her with his usual too intense, too blue and too— _evil_ —eyes.

"Finish your Arithmancy homework, Her—Never mind, stupid question. Can I borrow it?"

"What have I told you about asking for my homework?"

Abraxas smiled. "That only real men ask for help?"

"Yes, precisely. Only the exact phrase I used was 'don't'."

She smiled sweetly at him before taking a bite of bacon. He sighed, resigned, and turned to find someone more willing to help him cheat.

She almost growled when Riddle turned to her. She was tired of Slytherins, the lot of them.

"Minerva's waving you over," he said.

"Funny, I was just hoping she would," Hermione muttered and stood to leave. She was stopped by the expectant look on Riddle's face. She raised her eyebrows—not having gotten the patented Slytherin one brow raise down yet—and waited for what he wanted to tell her with only a few threads of sanity left.

"I need to speak to you before first lesson," Riddle said. She believed he had tried to make it come out as a request but she was learned in the art of people commanding her about and saw through his charm immediately. She also caught the 'speak to' instead of 'speak _with_ '. Another thread of her sanity unraveled.

"Meet me in the entrance hall?"

She nodded and was on her way.

 _On her way to committing genocide._

She walked over the Gryffindor table, readily expecting to feel comfortable among the red and gold ties and the House's always welcoming arms. Instead, she felt uneasy as she sat down in an empty spot between Minerva and another seventh year witch. Her green and silver tie was too conspicuous, and the nearest students quickly turned their eye on the snake in the midst of lions. A cliché, to be sure, but it was apt for the way the House— _her_ House—was eyeing her as if she didn't belong at her own table.

She sighed internally. Things hadn't been going her way since she arrived. She didn't know why she had felt so much hope for this small condolence among it all, but she now knew she wouldn't get it.

"The girls are all jealous you're going to the Fall Opener with Riddle," Minerva whispered loudly, eyeing a few of said girls with clear distaste. They looked away quickly, as if burned. "And now that I mention it" —her absentmindedness didn't fool Hermione in the least, it was the reason she had been called over— " _why_ are you going with _Riddle_?"

She said the last in a hiss worthy of a viper.

"Well, ah, he asked me?" she said uncertainly, sounding smaller than her personality ever allowed. Damn Minerva and her ability to make her feel two feet tall in the present _and_ past!

Minerva opened her mouth, presumably to make disparages on Riddle's character, her character and the general character of every Slytherin in the place—and their mothers, but Hermione had already had enough of, well, _everything_ that morning and quickly accidentally spilled Minerva's goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Whoops."

Minerva wasn't convinced at all and looked ready to start on her tirade as she mopped up the orange liquid quickly soaking through the tablecloth. Hermione grabbed her arm quickly, stopping her from both opening her mouth and cleaning up the mess she had made.

"Look," she said as she cleared the mess wordlessly with her wand, "you already know Slytherin isn't like Gryffindor. This is just… one of those things. Don't try to understand it."

The future Headmistress sniffed. "I could understand if you let me."

Hermione laughed. "Trust me. _I_ don't even understand it."

Distracted from their conversation, they looked up to see the morning owls come through the windows carrying packages and letters to their recipients. Hermione was just glad that Minerva had been sufficiently distracted as a grey barn owl landed in front of her, taking the attention off of her.

"Don't think I've forgotten about this," Minerva said tersely, and her hopes flew out the window with the owls.

It wasn't clear exactly why Minerva McGonagall hated—though a more appropriate term would be 'loathed' as they were Minerva's exact words—Tom Riddle. It just was. Like the grass was green and the Death Eaters mean, Minerva loathed Tom Riddle. Apparently, there was also no exact reason for it. At all. There wasn't even a time that she had _not_ loathed Tom Riddle—before she met him, obviously—it had just always been, and always would be.

Hermione thought it was kind of like her and Rita Skeeter. Good for her uses, but nothing more.

Her ponderings were cut dangerously short when an owl landed in front of her.

"An owl," she said unnecessarily.

"Yes, they deliver messages," Minerva said, and took the letter from the impatiently waiting bird. "Also good for catching rats and stealing bacon."

It promptly stole hers and flew off.

"Buggering birds," Minerva muttered and gave the letter to Hermione, lamenting over her bacon.

She took the letter with no little reluctance.

Mail. To her. Where she did not exist except in Hogwarts.

 _Interesting._

The rolled parchment didn't give her a clue to the sender, nor did the unrecognizable seal, though it didn't look official. It smelled faintly of dust, as if the parchment had been sitting in an old house for a long time, and the sender had never had the chance to use it, though it was nice and crisp.

She broke the wax seal cautiously. It had been a habit ever since fourth year for mail from unknown senders. She didn't want another go with undiluted Bubotuber puss. The message inside stunned her.

 _Dear daughter,_

 _We don't know each other and I want to keep it that way. Whatever trouble you're involved in with my revered brother, I don't want it. I'm involved enough. I suggest keep low and get away from your Uncle, but I already doubt you'd take my advice since you've taken up with him._

 _You've been getting mail and presents from pureblood wizards and their parents. Tell them to stop sending me offers for marriage, as I don't want to get married and I doubt you do either—unless you're into that sort of thing._

 _The first is big, so expect to get a large package after you finish this. Expect more tomorrow._

 _Grudgingly,_

 _Aberforth Dumbledore_

'People have been proposing to Aberforth?' she mouthed to herself, reading the lines over again as it was the only thing she could comprehend out of the whole letter. It seemed her brain was melting, a truly odd experience.

Sure enough, as soon as she rolled up the letter and put it into her bag, another disturbance came flying through the window. Suffice it to say, it was a very large package that took an odd conglomeration of seven birds to carry lopsidedly over the Great Hall. Hermione was half-afraid it would be dropped on the students head, the birds were straining so hard to fly.

"Wonder whose that is," Minerva said as it flew ever closer. The Gryffindor table looked around for the recipient, guessing among themselves who it would land in front of.

Hermione wanted to hide.

Too soon, the bird landed, with much flapping of wing and shedding of feathers, in front of her. The large package settled over many a person's breakfast, and more than one goblet was overturned. Also, more than one glare shot in her direction.

"Well, what are you all sitting and looking at?" Minerva snapped whenever she had gotten over the deadly silence that threatened to engulf the Gryffindor table—and it looked like the rest of the House tables were being threatened also. "Untie these birds, you dead-brained fuckwits!"

Hermione and several others started out of their reverie and hurried to detach the exhausted and overworked birds from the brown paper wrapped package. They drunk from the spilled drinks and flew off, their wings flapping as fast as they could to get away.

"Mail, Hermione?"

Lovely Uncle Albus, come to bring more attention than there already was onto her. My, how she loved her family.

Dumbledores were _assholes_ , she decided resolutely.

"Yes, Professor," she said dutifully, having stood to not be dwarfed by the package. Several others had the same idea as she did, and people stood around the table, eyeing the oddly shaped and wrapped package with uncertainty and not a little fear. Her bubble of Slytherins started trickling over from across the hall.

"What _is_ it?" asked a fifth year Gryffindor witch, staring at it with wide, unbelieving eyes.

"A marriage proposal." There was something strangely hollow about her voice, like a sad kitten crying all alone in an echoing cave.

"From who? All of Beauxbatons?" Cygnus asked from behind her, startling her.

"Our Hermione's a popular lass," Minerva deadpanned.

"Don't they know she's Tom's girlfriend?" someone whispered in a carrying voice.

Hermione felt that kitten die.

The package having been brought down to her dormitory by two house-elves on Professor Dumbledore's command, Hermione walked with Cygnus out of the Great Hall, still teeming with harpies gossiping about her package and throwing significant and expectant glances her way that she never failed to catch.

He put his hand on her arm, making her stop and let the other students heading for the first class of the day pass them out of the large wooden doors. Her first friend in the past looked decidedly shifty.

"I just want to tell you," he started in a low mutter, lips barely moving, "that you shouldn't trust Tom. Well, too much," he added quickly. Then: "I mean, you _can_ , except that he's not what he seems."

"And what is that?" she asked, wondering if _Cygnus_ of all people in the universe was warning her away from Tom Riddle.

"He's, uh, more than meets the eye, let's just say," he said, voice barely below a whisper so that she had to strain to catch his words.

She eyed him, thoroughly unimpressed by his hesitated warning. _If one could call what he had just said a warning, that is. Just a load of clichés tied together, if you asked her._

"Thank you, Cygnus," she said solemnly. He was the type who e rarely gave out warnings—and as lame and unhelpful as his was, she was obligated to thank him. It was also helpful if she wanted future warnings and important information from him, which would hopefully be more helpful than his 'more than meets the eye' bullshit.

He left her side when they saw Tom Riddle waiting beside the stairs, giving her a last significant glance as he started up the stairs, as if saying, _See! Evil!_

Naturally, Hermione ignored him, as she was well aware of Tom Riddle's kind of evil.

Riddle looked stiffer than usual, which Hermione rather thought he couldn't do, as he always had stiff posture. His smile was tight-lipped, and the fury radiated off him in waves, and she first wondered what she had done, then realized she hadn't done anything but knew that someone else would be getting in a hell of a lot of trouble later. She wished whoever it was the best of luck.

But not too much. She wasn't feeling too compassionate at the moment.

"Madam Curfin has informed me that your cast will come off Friday," he told her.

"Oh, that's good," she sighed in relief, rubbing the magical cast and glad that what he had wanted to tell her hadn't been anything too serious or life-altering. She thought her grin would stretch her face to enormous proportions, but didn't care. _She would be free!_ "You won't have to escort me to every class now."

Riddle, if possible, became even stiffer. "You don't like my presence?" he asked, tone cool.

"Don't be silly," she said, becoming as tight-lipped as him. _She loathed his presence._ "Now I won't have to wear the cast for our," she almost choked on the word, "date."

Riddle smiled, and the transformation from killing machine to angel happened so quickly Hermione almost took a step back in surprise.

"I look forward to it."

Her eye twitched.

The walk to Defense Against the Dark Arts was oddly quiet.

* * *

"Merlin's soggy underpants!"

" _Really,_ Minerva?" she pleaded, eyes screwed shut. "Was it absolutely necessary to put that image in my head?"

Minerva only laughed, throwing a tuft of grass she had pulled up at her.

They sat at the lake, basking in the bright sun and warmth that would soon be gone from the air of Scotland. N.E.W.T. notes sat around them, ignored for the splendid view of light reflecting off the black lake. The Giant Squid was similarly basking in the heat, though no adventurous entrepreneurs dared go close enough to tickle it with feathers.

"I can't believe someone sent you a basket of dragon eggs," she repeated instead. She sighed despondently. "I wish someone would send _me_ a few thousand Galleons worth of Class A Non-Tradeable Goods."

Hermione giggled halfheartedly. It was too hot to do anything but. "Professor Slughorn was very thankful for the potion ingredients."

"To think, you could have been whisked away to Romania on a dragon! Think of the gossip the harpies would have, Hermione! You've doomed us to substandard natter now, you have."

"I am truly sorry for your loss," she replied seriously.

The first ray of true happiness sunk into Hermione, as warm as the bright sun, and it lit her up from the inside, making everything brighter and more beautiful

"I still haven't forgotten about Riddle," Minerva reminded her, voice stern but sleepy.

"If only I could," Hermione sighed.

* * *

"You have the photograph?" a cold, high voice hissed. The words slithered through the dark library, caressing every part of him and forcing the continual fear he felt every minute of the day to a chilling degree.

"Yes, milord," Lucius said, glad he did not stutter. One did not stutter when speaking to the Dark Lord. It was just asking for your word to be questioned, and to be hit with a painful spell on the way out for wasting his time. "I have found a recent one you requested."

"Bring it to me."

He stepped forward immediately, his thoughts clear. An unearthly pale hand took the small clipping from him wordlessly.

"Posted in the _Daily Prophet_ , milord," he informed him. "Only a few months old."

He wanted to ask why, why of all creatures was he interested in _this_ one, but Lucius knew his place, and could hold his tongue.

He watched dark red eyes move over the photo, watching the girl wave to the photographer and hug the boy beside her, the raven-haired boy's arm slung over her shoulder.

"Granger," the Dark Lord said, high-pitched voice at a whisper. "A nice Muggle name."

"She is a Mudblood, milord," Lucius reminded him, then flinched at his error. The Dark Lord, however, was still staring at the news clipping, transfixed.

"Capture her and bring her to me," his master told him. Lucius was disquieted to see him caress the image. "Immediately, and unharmed."

Lucius nodded, bowed, and began to step back to leave his master in solitude, but the Dark Lord hissed, stopping him before he could move.

"You will not go out of your way to capture her," he ordered, tone turned from whisper to sharp and high. A tone one listened to at all costs. "This must be natural, for we cannot change time. If you happen upon her and are able to capture her, which I doubt—she is quite the creature, you will bring her here. Unharmed. I will be… displeased if it is otherwise.

Do you understand, Lucius?"

"Yes, milord."

Curious, Lucius thought as he closed the door of the library. He looked at Narcissa, waiting for him in the hall.

Curiosity be damned, he never wanted to displease his Lord.

* * *

If anyone finds the _Firefly_ reference, you get free interwebz cookies.


	9. Act Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any profit from this.

"Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands."

 **Anne Frank**

* * *

She loved the man, she had since her school years, and not in the way the rest of the world believed. He had been her mentor, her friend, and a leader she would have followed anywhere. He inspired that kind of love, that kind of loyalty, and she was just one among many who would have laid down their lives that dark night on the tower.

But there were times, specifically right then, that she had trouble restraining herself from dousing his portrait in petrol and warming her hands over the flames of Dumbledore's canvas.

"You speak in riddles, old man," she said tiredly. She had been listening to his spiel on Hermione for so long now that she wouldn't have been surprised to find bits of sand in her aging eyes. All she had asked him for was a paraphrasing of her seventh year— _it was clear she was an old maid, not even able to remember one of the happiest times in her life_ —and Albus had begun a narration worthy of the biography of Merlin.

"I only speak truth, Minerva," was his response, airy and light and too full of delighted humor for her liking. "You asked about the events of your seventh year, 1943 to 1944, and I was telling you them."

"I did not, however, ask about the Ministry's decision to outlaw centaurs from public goblin events."

"Ah." Albus nodded, chastised. "I thought I had taken it a tad too far."

Phineas Nigellus snickered. He was ignored.

She sighed and put her elbows on her desk. She hadn't gotten far in her search for Miss Granger-Dumbledore—Hermione, in her mind. It seemed every lead she got, from portrait or newspaper, dead-ended quite quickly, no matter how promising it looked. She didn't know what her friend had done outside Hogwarts. Minerva had known for sure then that Hermione had taken quite a few unscheduled and rule-breaking vacations from Hogwarts, Slytherin students telling professors she had taken ill. But Albus—then Professor Dumbledore—hadn't seemed worried, so neither was she. Hermione had been a strong, capable witch, able to take care of herself and more, and she had known she wouldn't get into much trouble. _Too_ much trouble, at least.

She had thought—although hoped was a better word—that her escapades out of Hogwarts would have stuck in someone's head or been put in the papers, but nothing turned up. It seemed as if her disappearance after NEWTs was final, the only thing to make the newspapers other than her marks.

"Albus, you are hiding something," she persevered. "Something that could be important for my search."

"Are you so sure she is alive?" he asked, smoothly avoiding her. His eyebrows were raised quizzically, as if it was a new thought, even for him. "I don't believe so. There was never any sign of her after her disappearance. Do you think me so harsh an uncle not to search for my own niece?"

She narrowed her eyes in fierce objection, but didn't speak on it. "Whether she is alive or dead, I intend to find her."

"Time-travel is a funny, intriguing thing," he said, ignoring her, hands folded together serenely. "It crosses universes causing chaos and discord, influencing events, and creating alternate-universes so like ours but compiled of every decision we did not make, every word unspoken, every thought unthought and every dream unsought. Shockingly familiar, but so very, very different. Whole shelves of books have been made of its intricacies and nuances. I think you can imagine its complexity when several of its theories double back on themselves, canceling out itself by paradoxes."

"Get to the point or shush up," she interrupted before he could continue. She could tell, by the way she had always been able to sense things in Albus Dumbledore which had made her such a reliable Deputy Headmistress, that he wasn't speaking as plainly as he could for a reason, a reason she knew she would not like one bit.

"The Ministry keeps registration of every life-alternating decision. You may want to check there before you give up."

She immediately began packing her handbag, not one to let a lead like this sit while she thought over it. Hogwarts didn't need her either, students wouldn't be arriving for a year now, and she and the other professors had plenty of time on their hands between restoring.

What he was inferring wasn't bad at all, but sent her into elation almost unknown. _Now she would find Hermione. She just had to._

"Did you happen to ask Professor Slughorn what might help in your search?"

She looked at Severus Snape, surprised that he was back in his frame. He always seemed to be visiting the monks when he got tired of his liquor. Which was quite frequently these days. "Yes," she sniffed, pausing in her packing. "He informed me he could remember nothing useful about Hermione. Too long ago for him, I suppose."

Severus raised an eyebrow, the patented Slytherin smirk appearing on his painted pale face. "Did you not ask for her records? I have it on good authority Horace keeps a set of his own for every student he believes will get him further prestige."

"That low down, pompous, scoundrel _Slytherin_!" Minerva growled, already out the door and on her way to the dungeons, packing forgotten.

When she got to his quarters, she found the door propped open, as if the Slytherin Head of House was waiting for her. She walked in with a sharp tap on the door as the only warning of her entrance. He had taken over Severus's quarters that year as his own from under the Hospital Wing had been partially destroyed during the Final Battle. It also catered to the wizard's massive ego by living in the celebrated war hero's rooms. Minerva thought that type of attitude despicable, but Potions Masters were rare and Horace Slughorn was the best on the continent with Severus dead. She knew, she had searched for better.

It was unsurprising to find the Head of House snoring loudly on the sofa, the bulge of his belly hanging over the edge. A goblet of wine was turned on its side on the floor, obviously having tumbled from his hand when he had fallen asleep. The dark red liquid soaked through the carpet, blood on white, as his baritone snores continued. Minerva rolled her eyes at the behavior of what was supposed to be a respected Hogwarts professor.

Now that she knew Slughorn was out for the count, she was free to look through his quarters for the files without him interfering with her plans by blubbering about Severus lying like he would undoubtedly do. _But where to look?_ She had no earthly idea where the man would keep the files Severus spoke of, and as his majesty wasn't able to show her, she was on her own. _There was always something._ She hoped the registry wouldn't be like this.

So lost in the reverie of contemplating the location of what she needed, a clatter startled her into jumping and almost knocking over a coat stand. She walked slowly to the open door of Slughorn's bedchambers, making sure to step quietly across the lush carpet, reflexes still on edge from the war.

Another noise, a thump of wood, and Minerva had her wand out and ready. There were Death Eaters still on the loose, ones who hadn't been caught in the aftermath of the war and had escaped imprisonment. There was no telling who could be in that room, and the Headmistress of Hogwarts would not take any chances. Horace slept on, and it brought to mind how alert he ordinarily was. Her gut churned.

Minerva almost laughed at her spell-happy wand when she finally saw the noisemaker. A house-elf stood in front of a large armoire, looking at her with large, terrified eyes, holding a small bag in its clawed hands. She lowered her wand.

"You startled me," she told it with a chuckle. She looked around the room, glad that there had been no real danger. She might not like Horace, but she would never wish a Death Eater on him. It also meant the wards around Hogwarts that had been broken by Voldemort during the battle that were replaced afterwards were up to par.

"Missy is sorry, Headmistress," the elf said, making it known she was a female elf.

Minerva nodded, sharp eyes looking around the bedroom. "It's fine, Missy. Since you are here, however, you can tell me where —"

"Missy is sorry," the elf repeated.

Minerva almost rolled her eyes again, but the Stunner hit her before she could.

"I is sorry."

* * *

"Minerva?" someone called, sounding half-annoyed, half-anxious. "Minerva, wake up."

Minerva, struggling to open her eyes, groaned as her recurring back pains flared to life; agony comparable to the sadomasochism wing of Hell burning through her spine. Ever since the Stunners that doxy shit for brains and her cronies had hit her with, she had been having trouble getting up in the morning, her back aching so much. With treatment, the pain had begun to go away, but now they were back full force. She would have to get her cane out again, and wasn't _that_ just an end to a perfect day?

But wait. Why was someone waking her up? A better question was why was that person Poppy and why was Poppy in her bedroom?

"Buggering fuck," Minerva groaned out, remembering the house-elf. "I'll wring that bloody elf's neck when I'm able to get off this damn bed."

"Language, language," tutted Madam Pomfrey. "You won't get out of the Hospital Wing for a few hours at least, your elf will just have to wait. Do you know what happened to you?"

"I was attacked —"

"— with a severe case of exhaustion," Poppy interjected before she could finish.

 _That_ made Minerva open her eyes. She hadn't believed it, but she was back in one of the places she loathed the most. The Hospital Wing was the picture that it had always been: everything a sterile white reminiscent of bleached rocks with the smell of brewing potions permeating the air and sticking to a person's skin for days afterward.

"I was attacked by a bloody house-elf!" she growled, making to stand. The heavy blankets holding her down stopped her, along with the hands of Madam Pomfrey as she shoved her back down on the small bed with an impatient noise.

With a noise of her own, one of unbridled anger, Minerva reached for her wand to Stun the damn woman to make _her_ feel how she felt. To her consternation and Poppy's well-being, her wand had been confiscated when she had been taken in.

It was evident that the healer remembered Minerva's propensity for violence when sick.

 _She would Obliviate them all—as soon as she got her wand back._

After finally convincing Hogwarts' Healer that she was not exhausted, but, in fact, had been Stunned by a house-elf—which was a feat in itself, as it could be compared to arguing with a brick wall—she was let go after gagging down a Backache Potion and a Pepper-Up for good measure. She went immediately to her office. Well, as fast as she could with pain flaring with every step she took. She didn't think the elf would still be in Slughorn's room, as it didn't seem the type to stay for the after-show, but she sent her Patronus down to Slughorn's just the same to call him to her office.

"I want to know if she hexed Pomfrey," she heard Phineas Nigellus say as she opened the door to her office.

"She took my damn wand," Minerva muttered, still in one of the foulest moods of her life.

"Pity," murmured Phineas.

Most of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts looked at her with concern from their safe canvases, but she appreciated Phineas Nigellus's rare tact at not bringing up the reason why a scowl weighed down the lower half of her face. Their relationship typically consisted of him picking at closed wounds until they were red, raw and bleeding and she was threatening to place his portrait in a room off the kitchens where the house-elves laundered the school's garments.

Their relationship was comprised of death threats and scorn. It was a happy one for the most part.

She supposed he understood the firm set in her jaw that meant someone else's hide would be threatened, and would leave off his scathing comments until after he watched the show.

Sometimes Minerva hated Slytherins. Useless, the lot of them. Always trying to take over the world or—what annoyed her first and foremost— _smirking_.

They probably imagined it made them look indolent and sophisticated, but which Minerva thought made them all look like complete and total twats.

 _Although that could be her letting her prejudice for a few Slytherins taint the rest._

She sat down behind her desk, contemplating whether she should call in the house-elf that attacked her right then or save it until she had no witnesses to the event. It injured her Gryffindor pride to admit that she had been sideswiped by a house-elf of all things, much less have other people—namely Phineas—witness how much it had surprised her. She was a _war veteran_ , for Godric's sake! She shouldn't have been defeated by one diminutive elf.

She conveniently passed over the fact that most house-elves' magic was stronger than the highest of wizards'.

If an elf could get one up on her, what did that mean for her as Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after two such prestigious wizards?

Minerva didn't want to admit that she was cowed by the position she was in, by the shoes she had to step into. The first being the most celebrated Gryffindor since Godric Gryffindor, and the second a spy who had in effect won the war for them with his skill in Occlumency.

How much could she offer the Headmistress position with only her crotchety self and her admittedly mediocre skills compared to her predecessors?

 _But if she could just find Hermione…_

It might just be the one thing that could redeem her, if not in the world's eyes, than her own. The prospect of searching for her childhood friend who she had mourned since that fateful day she had disappeared so mysteriously, however, loomed over her like a dragon preparing to use her bones to clean its teeth. The line where Hermione Granger ended and Hermione Dumbledore began blurred together, wavering like the invisibly visible currents of heat that emanate from the fire that the dragon breathes.

But she could do it, she told herself. Because if she couldn't bring her friend and student to peace—living or dead—how could she have her own?

She couldn't slay the dragon, but she could damn well scour the world with a comb and find it.

 _Not to mention that without Hermione she had no prospects for the Transfiguration Professor._

Minerva took great pride in her office, as much as an artist prides himself on a masterpiece or his best work of art. She hadn't changed much since moving to the tall tower that housed the Headmaster's office and living chambers, but the adjustments that she had done made a significant difference to the way it was when Albus then Severus were sitting behind the clunky and uncomfortable desk. At least it was uncomfortable for her, being a head shorter than the both of them. It had been one of her first orders at Hogwarts; the boring, dark and heavy desk being shifted to an abandoned classroom for use for another teacher if they so chose, while the gleaming whitebeam and rowan desk, striations of pale, light brown wood flowing through the opaque, ornate desk like water came through behind it. She caressed her desk then, the grain under her fingers as smooth as glass and as calming as any yoga pose.

As calm as that made her however, her ire rose to the peak of the highest precipice when Horace walked through her door after a perfunctory knock.

"Horace."

"You called me, Minerva?" he asked, patting his belly as he gave the portraits a small smile in greeting.

"I did." She waved her hand at the chair. "Sit." The good humour on Slughorn's face disappeared with all the speed of Apparation. Lowering himself into the stiff-backed 1800 colony chair, a bead of sweat formed on his brow.

 _My, that was quick,_ she observed. She supposed she must have been echoing Severus more than she had thought.

"Is something the matter, Headmistress?" Horace smile was congenial but strained at the edges. "I thought I had submitted my lesson objectives and plans last week to you for approval."

"It was duly noted, Professor," she said, changing to formal names as fast as him. She tapped a nail on her calming desk. "This is about the matter I brought to you earlier today. Miss Hermione Dumbledore and your memories of her."

"Right, right," he acquiesced, as he shifted in his chair, eyes darting around the room. "I told you everything I remember, Headmistress. A lovely, if reserved, student; an admirable Slytherin for sure. I suppose if she had been educated at Hogwarts since first year she would have been in your spot as Head Girl. Well," he amended with a chuckle, "if Tom hadn't been Head —"

His lips closed abruptly on his words, looking anywhere but at Dumbledore's portrait.

 _She would have to ask him about that later._

"Actually," Minerva said, a grim smile appearing on her face, "I was informed of your outstanding record-keeping skills. As Albus's niece, Miss Dumbledore would have surely been rated among your files."

"Really, Minerva," declared Horace with a surprised cough. "Do you think so little of me?"

 _Yes._

"My opinion of your personal character does not matter, Horace." She kept her tone even but the edge to it was as hard as onyx.

"I want her file on my desk within the hour. You are dismissed."

"But - but, Minerva," he stammered, eyes wide with dread. "This is a serious violation of ethics, not to bring up my personal —"

From behind her, Albus spoke. "The Headmistress wants the file, Horace." His voice was as cold as ice, but it was able to make the sweat on the Potions Master's brow increase tenfold.

 _Now she was beyond curious to what had transpired between the two._ It was rare for Albus to speak out while she was in a meeting, preferring to keep his silence unless Minerva asked him to put in his two cents.

 _Yes, she could already see herself asking what all the hubbub with Horace was about._

Horace left at a speed he was rarely known for.

Minerva turned in her chair to look at the grey haired wizard's portrait. Albus smiled at her, holding up his hand before she could open her mouth.

"You will be told everything when the time comes," he said, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners until the amusement turned into worry. For her. "For now there are more important things, like the house-elf that Stunned you."

She bristled, indignity heating her cheeks like a chimney.

"It will be dealt with."

Phineas' portrait scoffed, shaking his head at her. "Either you are very stupid, Headmistress, or you are very naïve. With your position as Headmistress, I hope for the children's sake it is the latter."

She narrowed her eyes, the humiliation of said event and him bringing up her worries in so bold a fashion. In her hand, her wand twitched.

Phineas Nigellus, seeing the way her wand had mysteriously aimed itself at his portrait, held up his hands in supplication, a wry smile on his lips.

"Perhaps it would be better if Severus explained," he amended congenially.

"I don't know how I could ever compare to you, Phineas," came said portrait's darkly amused drawl. "I have every assurance of your competency for the job."

"Now, now, Severus —"

"Will you two stop with your first-year power plays!" Minerva interrupted, eying the two portraits with severe dislike. She valued their opinions, but she hated them with equal fervor half the time.

"Now," she continued calmly in the silence of her office, "what is it you were telling me, Severus?"

She had the immature urge to stick her tongue out at Phineas Nigellus.

The old Head of Slytherin rolled his eyes, having heard the juvenile thought in her words.

"Very well," he intoned. "What Phineas _meant_ to say was that it is unheard of for a Hogwarts house-elf to go rogue and attack anyone—much less the Headmistress. Therefore, I think we can all agree that this was not a Hogwarts house-elf."

"But—" Minerva started, not comprehending. _It was impossible? So what had attacked her?_

"Are you saying people are bringing dangerous house-elves into Hogwarts?" Headmaster Dippet exclaimed. "Serious action should be taken immediately!"

"That is not what Severus was saying at all, Armando," sighed Albus from behind her. She turned in her chair to have a view of them all, not taking the chance of missing anything. She had an idea, but it was so outrageous that she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

"What are you saying, Severus?" Headmistress Dily Derwent patted her coiffed silver hair nervously.

"I am saying that the elf was not one of Hogwarts'," he said darkly. "No house-elf of Hogwarts would have done such a thing."

"You… you believe it was ordered here to attack her?" Dippet gasped.

"No," Minerva said slowly, catching on. "It didn't expect me to be in Slughorn's quarters. It was just as surprised at my appearance as I was at its."

"But why would a house-elf break into Hogwarts to go into the Head of Slytherin's quarters?" asked Fortescue, taking on the roll as speaker for half of the confused portraits. "You are inferring that the elf broke in, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Then _why_ would it?"

She had no earthly clue. The house-elf had been in Slughorn's bedroom, not in his potions storage cupboard where the most valuable potions were. There were many people who would like to get their hands on some of the vials locked away inside it. But the house-elf hadn't been in Horace's personal study, nor had it been in the Potions classroom. It had been in his _bedroom_.

 _Some busybody with a kink sent the elf?_ She shook the thought off immediately. She didn't want to think about kinks involving Horace Slughorn's y-fronts.

The door slammed open, startling a few portraits into a scream and Minerva to jump. Horace stood in the doorway, out of breath. He leaned over, putting his hands on his knees, gasping for air. He looked ready to fall over from exertion, the tuft of hair left on his head soaked with sweat.

"Minerva," he gasped out in between breaths. "Some - someone broke into my files."

She stood up to her full height, eyes wide. "Were any stolen?"

Her gut knew the answer.

"Her-Hermione," he panted, vest soaked with sweat, "Dumbledore. The files you wan-wanted. My wardrobe. Shattered."

"Buggering fuck."

"Oh dear," said Albus happily. He sounded as if he had just heard that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were real and dancing on the roof. "I believe I know who did this."

Minerva whirled on him. "Tell us then, so we may catch the culprit."

Joviality inappropriate for the happenings in full steam, Albus Dumbledore only gave her his infuriating half-smile and twinkle.

"Oh, you'll never catch her. To think, using a house-elf to do her dirty deeds!" He chuckled, as if this was all a fond joke. "I reckon if you check the wine that Horace was drinking, you would find Sleeping Draught. Very sly of her."

"Tell —!"

"Who do you believe did this, Albus?" Severus asked, cutting across her impatiently.

Albus grinned a full thirty-two shining teeth grin. "Why, my niece, of course!"

 _There was a hell,_ Minerva thought, collapsing into her chair, _and it was Hogwarts._

* * *

She knocked on her Uncle's door, feeling more foolish than she could have ever believed.

She had been transported to the past by a demonic book, been Sorted into Slytherin, had said book stolen from her dormitory, and, to make things worse, agreed to be the Dark Lord's date to a silly gathering.

She hadn't the faintest clue when everything had gone to the sewers, but knew she was now swimming with the rats. And not the small, relatively harmless rats that all you had to worry about was them getting into the cupboard. No, these rats could eat a ten pound cat for breakfast and ask for seconds.

"Come in!"

She opened the door and the scent of freshly baked biscuits hit her full force. Her mouth watered as she stepped inside, closing the large wooden door quietly behind her. Professor Dumbledore smiled at her from behind his similarly large desk, a plate of biscuits in front of him.

She wanted to get straight to the point and ask what he wanted, but the biscuits called to her. Dumbledore saw her eyeing them like a goblin eyes gold and motioned for her to take one.

"Ish there something you wanted?" she asked, swallowing. Comprise was key.

Uncle Albus waited until she had chewed and swallowed the biscuit before speaking. "Yes." The smile that had been on his face disappeared to be replaced with grimness. "I have been thinking on the facts, and I believe the Founders book was the cause of the attack."

Dubious, she furrowed her brow. "You mean it turned into a monster and broke my arm?"

He shook his head, still oozing ominous news. "If I am correct, the book conjured the creature and planted it into your dreams. Or brought you into the book. We all know what Salazar Slytherin was reputed for."

"So you believe this is all Slytherin's doing," she said, tone vicious. "That makes sense, since he was _so obviously_ evil—being the Founder of Slytherin."

They were both surprised by the amount of anger behind her words, but Hermione adjusted to the idea quickly, eyes smoldering with fury.

"It's always the Slytherins, isn't it? Just because we won't go charging wand first into battle, or always follow the straight and narrow, or expect everyone else to hold our ideals. I'm sorry I'm not as brave as you, _Professor._ I can't help that I would rather be alive at the end of a war than die in it."

Her jaw set, she glared at him.

She had been appalled when Harry showed her Professor Snape's memories, appalled by how Dumbledore disregarded him as important until he needed potions, degraded his love of Lily Potter, and, most importantly of all, said the Sorting Hat Sorted too soon. She couldn't believe that the wizard who valued unprejudiced ideas above all had blatantly scorned Slytherin House. So what if he was a Slytherin? That Slytherin had essentially _won the war_ for them and Dumbledore's precious ideals but few honored him publicly.

She had already been disenchanted with him, but once she had seen the memories of one of the bravest people she had known, she had loathed him.

Seeing the infuriatingly patient look in Dumbledore's eyes, she pushed back her anger and irritation with the wizard, letting it simmer in the back of her heart and mind like a festering boil. She couldn't reform his beliefs, she knew, just as he could not change hers.

"I was merely referring to Salazar Slytherin's Mastery of the Dark Arts and his infamy for cursing Muggleborns, though I do believe you are correct," he amended, that same infuriating sorrow in his eyes she had seen so many times before. "Slytherins are discriminated against for being what they are. It is unjust of them."

 _Them,_ she thought derisively. _Like he wasn't a perpetrator of said prejudice. It was everybody's fault but his._

"The book was stolen," was her clipped reply.

Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair, worry quickly overfilling his somber eyes. "Stolen?" he said slowly, as if testing the words.

Her jaw still clenched, part out of humiliation, part of the still simmering anger. "As in it has disappeared from my trunk."

"Stolen." Professor Dumbledore sighed heavily, a hundred years weighing him down. "A stolen book we cannot bring attention to, no less. When did this happen?"

"It was gone before the attack," she answered. "I don't know the exact date, however. I—" she paused, searching for the correct words of her failure, "I forgot to ward my trunk. I didn't notice it was gone until three days later when I looked for it."

"You do not believe it was the book's magic?" he asked, eyes shrewd. "It brought you here. It may have other qualities we have not found."

She nodded, acquiescing silently instead of starting another row. "You may be right, sir."

"But you believe it was stolen." It was a statement. Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap, gazing at Fawkes fondly. "You know what must be done then, Hermione?" he asked softly, still watching his familiar.

Hermione paused before speaking, thinking furiously as she tried to arrange the thoughts in her head.

"Search for it and the culprit quietly," she said slowly, feeling each syllable lay an even heavier weight on her shoulders. She had been searching for the book since she had noticed it missing, and though she wished she could have Dumbledore's expertise help in retrieving it, she was glad that he could not due to drawing unnecessary attention to said book. Right then, she just wanted to leave, more troubled than she had been before knocking.

Hermione left with an even heavier load than she had been dealing with, for now Dumbledore was waiting on her to find the book. She wished she was a child again and her parents able to solve all mysteries for her, make every monster disappear. It would be so much easier to let them sort it all out.

It is a little known fact, but parents are like superheroes. With just a few magic words they can make you feel ten feet tall and bulletproof, they can slay the dragons of doubt and worry, the can make all problems disappear. But of course, they can only do this as long as you're a child and let them. When you've become an adult, become the master of your own universe, they're not as powerful as they once were. Maybe that's why so many people take their time growing up.

But Hermione hadn't made use of her parents' powers since she had received the visit from Professor McGonagall telling her she was a witch. Her parents' magical powers hadn't been real and when she found out she'd had her own, she never went to them for help. It was always only the magical world that could help her. What could two Muggles who didn't understand anything help with in a war they could not fight, a war where they were only victims?

What value did their freedom and choices hold when Hermione could make them forget their _names_ in mere seconds?

She had loved that she could do all sorts of things the majority of people couldn't. She had loved that she had a world completely separate from her parents'. She had loved that more and more as she got older. Then the war started, and her magic wasn't the gift she thought it was anymore. It was a weapon, and she hadn't had anything in common with her parents for three years.

And now not only did she not have their opinions and help and—most importantly—their love, but they didn't even have a child to worry about as they basked in Melbourne's sun.

 _Did_ anyone _remember her at all?_

* * *

 _Dear Father,_

 _I am sure that you have already heard, but I decided it would be prudent to inform you of the details the press didn't seem fit to inform the general public._

 _Hermione Granger is not vacationing in Barbados. In fact, I doubt that she is having much relaxation at all, seeing as she went back in time to when both my grandfathers were in seventh year and has consequently enrolled as a student._

 _I have enclosed a page from the Hogwarts library records. Hopefully you may glean additional knowledge from it._

 _I plan to visit you and mother soon._

 _Love,_

 _Draco_

Lucius stared at the page perfectly torn from some book from Hogwarts' vast library. The picture moved only occasionally, a blink here, a smile or smirk there. Though it was sepia toned, printed to look ancient, he thought that the Slytherin common room had been photographed just yesterday, it had barely changed.

He stared at the charmed picture, willing it to change, to show him that what he was seeing wasn't really what he was seeing, that it was only a mirage of a man condemned to die and seeing his salvation. It couldn't be true, it couldn't.

Yet here was the truth in his hands, the truth that could get him and his wife out of this hellhole and their family back in Malfoy Manor. Barely five inches lengthwise, it was such a small deliverance from the fate he had thought only an hour ago he was destined to receive.

He looked back at the letter from his son—he wrote faithfully, trying to find a way out of the sentence they all knew he would be given—and imprinted the words on his memory before he studiously ripped it into shreds smaller than his pinky nail then ripped those shreds in half.

Hermione Granger stared up out of the picture at the destruction of his son's letter, blinking sluggishly at the camera flash. She sat on the right arm of Tom Riddle's chair, and his arm was slung casually over her legs.

Possessively.


	10. Act Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** ; I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I likely to in the near and distant future.

"If you are going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance."

 **Anonymous.**

* * *

Hermione got her cast taken off on Friday, and the relief was comparable to how she would feel if a meteor was redirected from its fatal course at Earth in the last three seconds.

She rubbed her arm carefully for the next few days. She hadn't known what Harry spoke about—the restraint that was Voldemort's horcrux in his head and how it made him feel confined, unable to breathe in the darkest of nights. She knew now. The cast had been that for her, an every second reminder of the monster that had chased her, Death on its breath. With it on, she had always felt the sharp, mind-numbing paranoia of irrational fear, forcing her to look over her shoulder, just waiting for the creature to run through the halls of her mind and rip her limb from limb and tear her unworthy eyes right out of her head.

Was it even possible to fight against such paranoia? _Especially_ after finding out that the core fear of things that go bump in the night wasn't so irrational after all, and that her imagination could hurt her just as much as a _Crucio_.

It was an understatement to say that she was glad to get the cast off.

Madam Curfin had informed her that there would be scarring, the extent of it unknown, but she knew the Healer had thought it would be extensive and was just holding back the full truth, afraid that Hermione might cry or some other silly notion. But Hermione had already expected a significant amount of scarring from the moment that she had accepted the event actually took place. It was believed when a Dark creature attacked a person that the damage would be great, the scarring more so. People weren't generally supposed to survive attacks from Dark creatures, and the scars that formed if they were lucky enough to escape proved it. Hers especially so. It was thick and ragged on her forearm, white skin puckered and running along where the creature's claws had grabbed her, interconnecting at points because of their width. Going almost to her elbow, it was like an even more macabre version of Voldemort's Dark Mark, branding her. It was ghastly, but Hermione favored it. She would rather have her whole arm taken off than wear that cast for just one more hour.

And it was noticeable—far more than the scar on her neck from Bellatrix's enchanted knife. She felt lucky that she had to wear bulky robes that covered her arms and that she would not have to wear a Muggle dress for Slughorn's party. To think on it, it was probably a blessing in disguise that she couldn't wear Muggle dresses anymore, as she had disliked the way she had felt as if everyone was staring at her at Bill and Fleur's wedding. However, she doubted the validity of the monster attacking her simply because it wanted to cater to her self-consciousness.

She would have to glamour it heavily whenever she went back to the present. It wouldn't do to alarm people with her maimed, broken body. _Would she be cast out?_

No. No, of course not. She was being silly and irrational. Her friends loved her and would never think worse of her because of something she hadn't been able to control; the bonds they had with Remus Lupin a testament to the fact. Even she hadn't expected that with everything else, she would have been attacked by a Dark creature. And if it turned out her magic was weakened, she always had the _unus pactus_ ring to supplement her magic. She hadn't tried it out yet, but she was positive that with it she would be able to cast a Patronus and the other purest of spells.

 _She didn't plan on petting any unicorns anytime soon, though._

There was something she had intentionally withheld from Madam Curfin, however, when the cast had been taken off. With the numbing spells enchanted on it, she had felt nothing but the occasional itch and sometimes an eerie burning feeling, as if someone was holding a large cigarette a millimeter from her skin. But without the cast, the burning was not numbed and she could not hide from reality safely behind her enchanted cast. Pain she hadn't felt since Bellatrix had tortured her, broken nails moving through her arm, rending veins and muscle to the bone, rupturing arteries. It was a wormhole, where nothing existed beyond the mind-numbing pain, a constant reminder like the cast had been, that she was weak— _so weak_ —and she could never compare, never equal, never conquer the creature who had done this to her. Coursing through her in the briefest of seconds, it felt like an excruciating lifetime.

She didn't know why she didn't tell Madam Curfin or Professor Dumbledore. Maybe it was because she had nothing left of her own anymore—not her name, her body, and now her soul and magic. Everything was slowly being either tainted or stripped from her one piece at a time, and this small factor was just hers, something that she could keep to herself, though it was grisly in nature.

She sat on her bed fully-dressed, staring at her scar—

 _She had been healed, but she was still diseased._

—and a squeal of pure, teenage-girl excitement broke her out of her melancholiness, making her groan and put her head between her knees like an ostrich with its head in the sand, hoping what plagued it will just _go away_.

"Hermione!" Ambresia called, her voice like nails on a chalkboard in the deepest pits of Hell. "Are you ready? Tom's waiting with Abraxas, Cygnus and the others. We're all going together."

She heard the faintest bad-tempered muttering about Cygnus not being proper with a Ravenclaw date and it was the only thing that could have lifted her spirits. To see Ambresia pissed was a fantasy she had lived in since the news had hit Hogwarts that Cygnus had asked Glenda Smythe instead of her friend— _ala protégé_ —Agnes Nott. It was a pity it would all blow over tomorrow and Ambresia would become her normal, swatting-at-a-gnat-annoying self once more.

Hermione looked at the clock set in the seventh year dormitory and pondered on the fact that she was probably the only woman in the whole universe who wished her date would be late. Indeed, she would have preferred that he never asked her in the first place or had forgotten about her entirely. She would have liked it even better if he would just drop dead, but knew that was already out of the question. He had a rather healthy heart and, with the added insurance of his first Horcrux, the sneaky son of a bitch wasn't likely to fall into an early grave the night of the Fall Opener.

She walked up the stone dungeon steps to the sound of giggling and gushing by the other few witches of Slytherin who had been invited to the party. Hermione lingered, smiling, complimenting, and hoping that if she submitted herself enough to the screeching voices of the harpies that she would be able to plead off a headache to Riddle.

All too soon, they arrived in the Slytherin common room. She didn't have a headache.

"Don't you look handsome!" Parkinson tittered, floating over to Abraxas with all the grace of a butterfly. The pureblood preened as she caressed the neck of his robes, acting like a peacock his family bred.

She turned away before they could start snogging, lip curling in disgust when she was subjected to hearing it instead. As she turned, she was confronted with the chest of Tom Riddle.

 _And what a chest._

Outfitted in all black, the Dark Lord could have given lessons to her former Potions Master on gloomy but sophisticated robes that were totally unneeded for such a casual occasion. Fortunately for Riddle— _un_ fortunately for any witches prone to fainting—his dress robes didn't make him look the vicar Snape had been, instead making him an unavoidable presence that almost screamed 'Future Minister of Magic'— _or, in special cases, the cover shot for Playwitch._ She could now see why Professor Slughorn had been so disappointed when the wizard didn't go into politics; his presence was one that commanded attention, charm imbued within the threads of his robes, and Slughorn would have had supreme bragging rights at his disposal.

His spotless black contrasted drastically with her snowy white robes.

 _Light and Dark. Could this situation mock her more than it already had?_

Obviously, it could. Full of contradictions, he looked like the smooth, charmed cousin of the boy who had asked her out just a few days ago. She could have rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all—the Shakespearean comedy her life had turned into—but Riddle distracted her by holding out a blue flower so light that it was almost white under her nose.

"I had hoped it would match," he said, a smile curling his lips.

She looked over to where Abraxas and Ambresia were trying to eat each others faces and thought this flower—no matter who gave it to her—was a much better present. "Thank you," she said genuinely.

He transformed the flower into corsage and placed it on her wrist with gentle care. It suited him, the attention to detail, and his pure, unadulterated focus on her as he set it straight on her wrist made a faint little girlish sigh entirely suited to Ambresia rise in her mind before she could check it.

Riddle didn't appear to have noticed Hermione mentally slapping herself. Hard. After casting a disgusted glance at the snogging couple, he held out his arm for her to take. "Shall we?" he asked, full of confidence and charm and— _evil_ —too attractive for his own good.

She put her arm through his. "We shall."

 _She wished they were all dead._

The abandoned classroom on the fifth floor was decorated as expensively as any party Marie Antoinette could have possibly thrown during her too short reign. The pale white silk that lined the walls—an enchantment most likely on them to make the room seem larger—was the only source of color besides silver and gold. She looked around the room with mounting horror. _Had a burlesque act's disco ball exploded?_ Silver and gold were absolutely _everywhere_. The curtains, the flowers, the candles and votives, the goblets and plates and the trays carried by house-elves—who she, in detached dismay, watched walk by dressed in striped silver and gold towels; every decoration was as lavish as the last and doused with enough silver and gold to make even the bravest of Founders flinch. Slughorn even had silver and gold pixies flitting about the ceiling like little celebrating flies.

Hermione definitely got the message that was being shoved in a very un-Slytherin like manner into all the guests' faces. This party was to celebrate her—and remind Professor Dumbledore whose House she was in. But mainly the latter.

"This is… festive," she said slowly, bravely, not wanting to voice her true opinion of the decorations. Just yet, at least.

"Very," Riddle said wryly. She could only barely see the faintest sign disgust at Slughorn's shameless boasting on his face. He patted her arm, maybe to assure himself that she was still made of flesh and blood and hadn't turned gold upon their arrival, and nodded toward a silver table lined with gold dishes. "A drink, madam?"

Before she could answer, however, they both saw Slughorn hone in on them like a giant bee to a batch of nectar-filled flowers. A chant of _Please Gods, no_ started up in her head.

It didn't save her.

After barreling through as many guests as fast as his thick stomach and full goblet of wine would let him, he arrived at where they stood beside the door. "My two most famous Slytherin students here… _together_! How absolutely wonderful!" Almost bouncing on the balls of his feet in his happiness and with a grin stretching his face, he winked at Riddle conspiratorially. "Your Hermione is a beauty, is she not, Tom?"

Her chant of _Please Gods, no_ became _Too many witnesses._

"Yes, sir," Riddle answered, a smirk teasing his lips. If her eyes were forks, she would have stabbed him.

 _Like Tom Riddle needed more self-confidence in his belief that he owned everyone and everything._

"It looks like an interesting party, Professor," Hermione said politely, injecting herself into the conversation with all the grace of a drunk horse.

 _Interesting_ didn't seem to be quite the adjective Slughorn had expected—or wanted—and, unlike Riddle, his face showed his dislike fully before he hid it with pure enthusiasm. Her date shifted uncomfortably next to her, eying her with curious interest, like a bug he wanted to dissect and study. She ignored him.

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Slughorn delightedly, dislike of her wording forgotten or ignored in favor of bragging. "I invited several of my esteemed academic acquaintances—you must have heard of Krevork Trellis, the author of _A Clever Tale_. It's a fully-fleshed out biography of Rowena Ravenclaw's life. He leaves nothing to the imagination, him. Oh, you wouldn't imagine the shocking scandals she made in her youth!"

 _Too many witnesses_ became an urge to regurgitate her lunch.

"Oh, look," she said, unconvincingly, "it's Uncle Albus. I must go and say hello."

Professor Slughorn's laugh was gay and blissfully ignorant behind her as she gleefully disappeared into the mass of party guests.

 _Let Riddle deal with the pompous git,_ she thought. _He was already well-versed in slime, it wouldn't be too hard to cope._

She tried avoiding the small groups formed around the room, taking no chance of being disturbed on her search for a secluded place to get away from the madness of the clashing decorations or her life—or both, but the people who she was trying to avoid other than Riddle and Slughorn.

"Ah, Miss Dumbledore," Professor Dumbledore said, stalling her escape with his irritating _Mona Lisa_ half-smile and twinkle. "Just the niece I was searching for."

"Uncle Albus," she said dully.

Seeing as no one was around her Uncle yet, she wasn't concerned about her lack of enthusiasm.

Dumbledore looked around the extravagantly decorated room, smiling delightedly. "A very festive event, is it not?" he asked. Before she could comment with something scathing— _she wasn't much in the mood for inane chatterings_ —he continued, "I see you've come with Mr. Riddle. A very nice young man. Dedicated."

 _What was he playing at?_

They both knew that he had been informed of her being Riddle's date for the Fall Opener, so she could only wonder why he was bringing up her date in such a crowded setting when he had plenty of chances when she'd been in his office before. There was something off about the way he said it, also. Was he trying to warn her away from her date? Did he think she didn't know about Tom Riddle's alter ego?

 _Of course,_ she mused, _she hadn't told him anything of the future so he couldn't know that she already knew genocide would soon become Riddle's favorite pastime._

"I should say it was a happy surprise," he continued. "I didn't believe you would come at all."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Here comes your date now," Dumbledore said, missing her sarcasm. He patted her gently on the arm. "Shall I give him 'the talk' since your father is unavailable?"

"No," she said quickly, face reddening as quickly as a thermometer in July. "It's unnecessary, Uncle Albus. Totally unnecessary."

"Well, the offer is always on the table, dear girl," he said merrily as Riddle arrived beside Hermione bringing two drinks and a small plate of finger food. _Riddle the waiter._

He bowed formally to Professor Dumbledore, what she called his _very un-Dark Lord material_ mask on his face. "Professor," he said stiffly.

"Tom," returned Dumbledore, frivolity dimmed slightly as he looked at the future Lord Voldemort. She could feel the tension in the air, though she wondered if it was only her imagination, as neither her uncle nor Riddle displayed any. It was more than likely her knowledge of the future setting the ominous vibe in the simple greeting, making her attribute feelings where none were.

"I believe congratulations are in order —" The professor was abruptly cut off as the Head of Slytherin called to him across the guests, sounding merry and full of booze. "Ah, Horace calls." He sighed with mock weariness. "I suspect I will be giving another toast to house unity. If you will excuse me…"

Hermione and Riddle both nodded and watched as his tall frame lumbered away from them and into the party. As soon as only the tip of his purple hat was left in sight, her date turned to her and held out a silver goblet full of red liquid.

"I brought us both some drinks," he said as she took it carefully from him. Her first thought was poison. Her second, Veritaserum. However, logically, she could find nothing she had done yet in the past that warranted either her death or the use of Truth Serum.

She took a drink.

She didn't die immediately. _Must be a slow acting poison._

She was a little unnerved by the way Riddle—her normal, un-Dark Lord date—watched her lips as she took another sip, but was able to ignore it in favor of reciting the various slow-acting poisons that could now be flowing through her system. If she was anything, it was an informed neurotic.

"I am sorry about what Professor Slughorn implied," he said formally, so stiffly she thought his robes would indeed look better on a vicar. "I hope it did not offend you so much to deny me a chance at a dance."

 _Had to be a poison,_ Hermione thought, eyes softening despite her mind's loud protest.

"Now?" she blurted. She almost flinched, berating herself for saying that when what she had _meant_ to say was, 'I would rather stick a hot poker into my eye.'

 _Maybe one that altered her characteristics._

She swore that if she turned into a clone of Ambresia, she'd make a conscious decision to fuck the timeline and _murder_ Tom Riddle.

Riddle blinked, almost as if he had heard her thoughts. "That would be preferable. I do have to warn you that I am not much experienced in dancing with beautiful witches."

"Neither am I," Hermione said in all seriousness.

Uncharacteristically, he snorted before taking her drink and setting it and his on a nearby house-elf's tray. Then he held out his hand. She took it with as much reluctance as she could muster.

To her dismay, it wasn't much.

The truth was—and Hermione had a hard time admitting it to herself, much less in his vicinity—that Tom Marvolo Riddle was the only contemporary, only equal, she'd had in all her years. Though all her friends were dear to her and she would never give them up for all the books and intelligence in the world, she had always yearned for someone to talk to without having to dumb down her words, as some said. Draco had been that—if briefly—but he didn't have the same intensity, the same passion for learning and academics and magic and _everything_ that Tom Riddle did. He was the complete package: looks to rival the Devil including his morality, strength to power the Darkest of magics, and the intelligence to hide all of his dastardly deeds and plans from Hogwarts (except for Dumbledore, who was omniscient).

She knew, statistically, that if she kept idolizing the Dark Lord like she was, that she

would fall head over heals to Dark. It was even worse with the dull throb her scar made occasionally, reminding her that not only was the creature out there and waiting, but that she had been infected with Dark magics. It would make her more susceptible to falling to the Dark side. Literally, and not the rainbows and bunnies that was _Star Wars_ either. The kind of Dark magic that made Inferi, the kind that split your soul, the kind that made humanity seem like something only found in fiction.

And in the end, that had been what had Harry had vanquished. A half-man that had begun to lose all traces of his humanity in a cave with little Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop.

It would be better—healthier—if she stopped idolizing him and instead kept a stringent distance away from him, staying wary of whatever he did or said. It would be enough, she thought, to keep her from falling to the Dark Arts, enough to keep herself level-headed and away from the lure of Riddle and his Dark Arts Mastery.

It made sense, therefore, that with everything she knew, that she was now on the dance floor with him.

The music light and the dance floor small, Hermione was fully disenchanted with anything that had to do with Professor Slughorn. The arse, making her dance close to Riddle. She added _dancing with Dark Lord_ to the list of things she never wanted to do.

 _Again._

Riddle's posture had gone back to stiff, though his hand on hers was relaxed and the one on her waist comfortable, as if his hand had been merely waiting to rest in its spot once more, disconcerting her.

Keeping her eyes on a distant spot far over her dance partner's left shoulder, Hermione was determined to get through the dance with no embarrassment on her part before she ran back to her dormitory—or curled into a tiny ball of hysterical witch in a corner. It seemed that it hadn't been just Cormac McLaggen making her last invitation to one of Slughorn's parties a living hell.

 _Probably something in the wine, then._

The decorations most likely also added to her confusing feelings of hysteria, her and Riddle dancing inside a tiny silver and gold disco ball.

"You never speak about your mother," Riddle said, interrupting the awkward silence dancing happily between them.

Hermione thought of Monica Wilkins, basking in the sun and blissfully unaware of her daughter's existence. "She's dead."

His face clouded with what she knew was mock sympathy.

Hermione thought that everything would be much easier if she didn't know what kind of person he would grow to be, already was. Foresight into someone's character was easy when one was from the future. You knew every single turn a person took, every mistake and vile act, every horrible deed and all of their motives. It shamed her to admit to herself that she would be happier, _much_ more happier, if she didn't know what kind of monster Tom Riddle would become, instead keeping the wool over her eyes like the rest of the population and believing he was just the handsome Head Boy that, if she were ever so inclined, she could giggle over like Ambresia and the other witches.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

She nodded curtly. "Thank you."

Before they could descend back into their awkward silence, he spoke again. "I'm not very familiar with the logistics of a magical cast. Did it hurt when it was taken off?"

"Painless, thankfully," she said, sensing that he was sincere about this, in his need to know and that the question wasn't some form of wheedling something out of her. _Paranoia was obviously her food of choice tonight._ "I believe the Numbing Spell enchanted on it helped, however. I'm sure it would have been quite a bit more painful if Madam Curfin had put a simple Freezing Charm on it instead."

"I'm surprised you've taken an attack from Grindewald so calmly."

 _If only he knew._

She shrugged as much as she was able, still following his lead around the dance floor. "Uncle Albus told me that to come to Hogwarts, to come into the public, that I would be setting myself up for attack from his enemies." _And she was dancing with one._ "Simply put, I decided it was worth the risk."

Riddle nodded understandingly, but still looked unconvinced at how blasé she was with her safety. "Have you set any wards around yourself since?"

She shook her head, and as she opened her mouth to respond, the look in his eyes turned cold, hard, flashing with _success_ and something indefinable that made her throat close on a gasp. She took an instinctive step back, but it was too little too late. His grip on her waist intensified as he followed her, making the misstep of their dance look natural, like it hadn't turned from a simple waltz to a war zone in .02 seconds.

Squeezing her hand tightly in warning, almost making her cry out, he pulled her closer so his breath was on her neck, her ear. She struggled, trying to get out of his crushing grip on her hand as he ground her bones together like he was a fairy tale monster in need of crushed bones for the recipe of his lunch.

"You have nothing to gain by struggling. We've been under a Notice-Me-Not spell since we walked onto the dance floor," he told her as calmly as one would the weather. Fear coursed through her, but the overwhelming feeling of confusion was swiftly overtaking it. There was no sense, no logical explanation in her mind, that could explain this unprovoked attack—especially in a setting where even the strongest magical disguising charms could be foiled, seen through.

"W-what do you want?" she stammered, voice shaky.

"I want to know what wards you put on _the Book_."

 _The Book._

Everything shifted in her mind, instances and scenes falling into place like pieces of a perverse jigsaw puzzle. Every little touch, odd look, the possessiveness he'd shown; it explained everything and nothing all at once.

 _Of course._

The first thing she felt was embarrassment, forcing her to shut her eyes to try and block out the humiliation of such an error. The Founders book had been stolen by the wizard who _killed_ people for Founders related objects. She shouldn't have overlooked it at all, but she was still stuck in the mindset of boys not being able to go into the girls' dormitories because of the spelled stairs. She had forgotten that no spell could ever deter Lord Voldemort into getting what he wanted and that he wouldn't just whine like Ron and eventually give up. She had instead naïvely believed it had to have been a witch.

The next thing she felt was white hot anger, the kind that made Unforgivables come easily to the lips. She forgot for a moment that Tom Riddle was already in the first phase of Lord Voldemort, and that he had already killed his father and his family and condemned Myrtle to eternity in a toilet and Hagrid to Gamekeeper's duties. She forgot that he would ultimately lay claim to Wizarding Britain and let Death Eaters teach the Cruciartus Curse to Hogwarts students. She forgot that he would kill Harry's parents and would have had hers killed given the chance. She forgot all this in a second, instead focusing on what a low-down shameless Slytherin he was and how she wished her wand was in her hand so she could _light him on fire_.

The pressure he put on her back became unbearable, enough so that she had to give up her murderous thoughts and voluntarily move closer to Riddle or risk pulling out her shoulder, as he had made it impossible for her to reach her wand with either hand. She recognized the situation she was in now, and it didn't look pretty.

"You should answer the question, Hermione," he murmured in her ear, still leading her in a waltz. To anyone else they probably looked the star Slytherin couple, or they saw them as they saw many seventh year couples: brain-dead in the throes of first love. The only throes she was in, however, was anger and humiliation. And what felt like the fight for her life.

"You stole my book?" she asked, voice low.

"That should be painfully clear by now," he said coolly.

"And you couldn't read it either," she stated matter-of-factly.

She whimpered as the grip on her hand intensified; the grinding of her bones made her want to curl in on herself and brought tears to her eyes. She tried to struggle through it, block it out, _anything_ , but the pain was unbearable and instead her body refused to ignore it.

"I do not like repeating myself," Riddle said, and the calm his voice had remained throughout now had an edge.

"I didn't put any wards on it," she rushed out, barely refraining from begging him to let go of her hand. "I swear. I didn't." _Please._

"You're lying," he said sharply, eyes flashing. "I demand you to tell me the truth."

So ingrained it was in her, she almost told him everything.

"I _didn't_ ," she insisted, hand so hot she wouldn't have been surprised if she looked over and saw it was on fire.

When he opened his mouth, no doubt to call her a liar again, she got snippy. "I'm telling you the truth. I never put wards on it, not even anti-theft ones, as you well know."

This argument seemed to give him pause, and his hold on her hand decreased slightly, the better for her to feel the throbbing heat of her hand in the cool air. The hard look in his eyes turned considering. She was surprised to note she preferred the former.

"No," he said, almost musingly, to himself. "You wouldn't have been able to and, even if you had, I would have detected any feeble attempt."

Hermione had two choices. Either become offended by his presumption and disparaging comment on her spellwork ability, or be prudent and stay quiet.

She glared. "Give me back my book."

A startled laugh, one of pure disbelief, erupted out of his mouth. He looked down at her like she was a entertaining sideshow act at a circus, an irritating smile on his lips. "How will you make me?" he asked simply, then widened his eyes in mocking realization. "Your dear Uncle? Going to run to him with tears in your eyes about how _I_ , the Head Boy with no marks on my record and the ear and trust of the Headmaster, stole your empty, worthless book? With no proof?" Riddle leaned in conspiratorially and jeeringly said, "Shall I call your uncle over now?"

 _Screw the timeline. Murdering him was looking better by the second._

Hermione looked around them, watched Abraxas and Ambresia schmooze, Cygnus and his date dancing so close she could almost touch them, and Dumbledore busy entertaining what looked like the vampire from her sixth year.

He was right. She painfully admitted to herself that here was no one to come to her rescue. There were no basilisks to slay, or Dark Lord's to defeat. There were no Death Eaters to duel, or evil teachers to get sacked. There was no one and Hermione Granger was officially on her own. Completely and utterly alone.

"You'll need my help to read it."

This time, she did cry out when he squeezed her hand. Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision. "What" —back to his eerie calm— "do you think I would say about lying?"

"Don't," she gasped out.

The pressure decreased, the darkness dissipated. "Good girl."

 _That's what she had been lowered to,_ Hermione thought. _Just another obedient dog._

 

* * *

 

She was better able to get a hold of herself as he led her to a corner of the room, though the wand pressed in-between her ribs gave her a seconds pause. Her hand at her side, bruised and swollen, she sat down in a chair and waited until Riddle had put disguising spells around the corner so they couldn't be seen before she spoke.

"What do you expect me to do? I already told you I can't read it either."

He looked out of his enchantments, a faint blue wall separating them from the party, as he answered. "I know how you act. Tell me how you tried to make the text appear."

"You. First."

Her wand pointed squarely at his chest, she glared at him, daring him to try something on her again. His only reaction was to raise the patented Slytherin eyebrow and sigh as if the people he dealt with wasn't worth it all.

" _Declaro_ and all of the Revealing spells in the library, runes, writing in it" —she held her breath— "and a blood sacrifice."

She lowered her wand, arm shaky. "So, basically everything I did."

 _She didn't mention her Revealer, which hadn't been invented yet._

Quick as a speeding bullet, he moved closer, towering over her sitting form. The wand in her hand didn't seem to alarm him one bit as he sneered down at her, eyes disdainful and full of bitterness. She toyed with the thought of hexing him for half a second before he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her to standing position, making her choke back a surprised scream.

"Look." He pulled up the arm of his robes, showing her his left forearm.

"I -" Sweat dripped off the back of her neck, running down her spine and cooling her temper while fanning the flames of her fear. She shook her head, staring at the tattoo on his arm with wide, disbelieving eyes. Quickly, she closed them, but the image was imprinted on her mind.

A large, black snake in the figure eight, its body moving obscenely as it ate its tail.

 _Infinity._

 _Eternity._

Opening her eyes, she looked at Riddle coolly, her eyes straining to look back to the offensive snake still moving on his arm. "Why would I care about your tattoo?" she asked, tone flippant. "Just another hapless call for attention, isn't it?"

She looked back up at him, taking special care to note the tenseness in his jaw and no-nonsense look in his eyes.

He grabbed her other arm roughly, ignoring her pained shout as her scar burned under his hand. She tried to tug her arm free, pleading with her eyes for the people to do something, anything, while she tried to tug her wand out of his other hand's grip on it, but Riddle's disguising spells were more than up to par and no one saw her desperate cry for help. _Would anyone ever again?_

She stopped fighting immediately, body going slack, when he pushed up the sleeve of her robe and uncovered her scar to his eyes. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to bruise as he pulled her closer, chest to chest, eyes demonic and slightly crazed.

Riddle hissed under his breath, parseltongue or profanities, she couldn't be sure, as he saw the same tattoo as his over her scar.


	11. Act Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to it. Only the plot is mine, and I encourage everyone to take it.

"Your intelligence is measured by those around you; if you spend your days with idiots you seal your own fate."

 **Anonymous.**

* * *

"I won't allow it."

Hermione swelled up in rage, not believing her ears and what had just spewed out of his pompous, bigheaded mouth. "You won't _allow_ it? _You_ got us into this mess in the first place, you conceited hippogriff!"

"I got us into this?" he sneered. She noticed how, standing beside his bed, his wand twitched, maybe for his wand. _She just wished he would try._ "I wasn't the first to donate blood."

"I didn't know a piece of slime like you would come along, _steal my book_ and do the _same_ _bloody thing_!" she retorted, voice almost at a level only dogs could hear. She couldn't believe it. Out of all things for him to do once they figured it out—hexes, curses or Unforgivables—he was _blaming_ her.

 _Typical, just typical._

First Ron for almost everything that had gone wrong in his life, now the Dark Lord.

Blood-bound to Lord Voldemort by a book, and now the great Lord himself was casting blame on _her_. It was all terribly laughable, so she did just that. It echoed across the seventh year boys' dormitory like bells, hysterical, with an edge of madness. The sound made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she couldn't make herself stop as she slid to the cold floor, tears in her eyes.

Light flashed across the room, startling her from her deranged laughing as the eerie green light of the dormitory brightened and flared, causing white lights to obscure her vision. When they cleared and she was able to see again, she watched, quiet pushed onto her, as Tom Riddle pocketed his wand. Looking down at her, he curled his lip.

"Save your womanly hysterics for when I am not in the room."

After a silent moment staring, only a quiet, immature snickering at 'womanly hysterics' in her thoughts, she looked away from him and toward the one window in the dormitory. Under the lake like the rest of Slytherin's quarters, it shone an unnerving light green light over everything it could reach. She stood and walked over to it, not caring about the risk of turning her back on Riddle. He couldn't hurt her anymore than what she was already experiencing. Still, she knew that when she didn't immediately get hit with a magical or verbal assault, he had grasped the fact that they were in the same oar-less boat on the same revolting river and that it would be more prudent to combine brainpower than to fight against the current.

"Do you have any ideas?" he asked after a quiet, almost comfortable, moment.

"A few mediocre ones."

She wished she could see the stars, and feel the hope that they might bring in their twinkling vastness, but all she could see was murky green. Hopeless was what it was. She couldn't fight against despondency and it led her into the equally murky area of desperation.

She turned quickly, suddenly enough for her new blood buddy to move for his wand in surprise as she rested her back against the window. _He would never trust her_ , she thought arbitrarily. As the cold of the window seeping through her dress robes, she fought with herself not to show her desperation. It would be like spilling blood in a pool of sharks.

"What was your knife made of?"

She waited with a politely expectant face when he only narrowed his eyes.

"Silver," he said finally, and her heart sunk. "That matters _why_?"

"Because that made the blood binding all the more powerful." The last word came out as a sigh. She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes, trying to press away what was happening. There was only one problem; the situation she was in had already set up camp and was happily making s'mores over the bonfire that had previously been her life.

 _What a way to end their date._

However, she _was_ glad to have the cause of the tattoo that covered half her scar explained. Before, she had thought it might have been another sort of attack from the creature—though it had not been in the library when it happened. It could reach her in dreams, there was no telling what else it could do. She didn't know whether to be relieved that it wasn't the monster, or disgusted at just another obstacle on her way back to her present. She didn't want to think of being blood bound to Tom Riddle as anything else other than an obstacle, for she knew that if she recognized the truth of what it was—even if only in her thoughts—she would go on a Slytherin killing spree.

 _She might just yet._

 _It didn't explain the gruesome snake, though._

"Because silver is a conductor," Riddle said musingly, eyes out of focus. "It enhanced the donation, giving it maximum power that wouldn't have been achieved with any other element."

"It also _bound us together_." She rolled her eyes, even though it felt like her heart was doing the cha-cha in her chest. She distracted herself by looking around the Spartan room, kept almost sterile by house elves and magic. It wasn't the boys' doings, she knew, but done for Riddle's high standards of cleanliness. The wizard was already a menace.

 _She only wished she could get Ambresia to clean her knickers off the floor._

"May I again ask _why_ you needed that information?" he asked through gritted teeth. Apparently he had decided it wasn't worth it to be his polite and charming Head Boy self with her when she already knew he wasn't as nice as he looked. It was likely he planned to Obliviate her as soon as he was able.

She smiled, sickly sweet and cloying. "No reason." She paused, waiting. She could almost _see_ his malevolent thoughts. "Oh, except that, if I'm right—and I have the sometimes irritating tendency to be so—I am now Mrs. Tom Riddle."

He would either curse her or have a heart attack.

 _She had ten Galleons on cursing her._

She lost her bet when instead he became still, not a twitch of a finger or shift of stance. He just _was_ for that moment, like he had been frozen in time and space and only two thousand years from now would someone find his decayed bones in the Slytherin boys' dormitory. There were no words for how terrifying it was to watch his breakdown, his face blank and slack and his eyes dull, empty. His very act of stillness, of doing nothing, made something inside her urge her to take a step back and run _very_ far away.

She moved cautiously instead, pulling back the sleeve of her robe and exposing the scar and tattoo on her right arm for the second time that night. Slowly, eyes on Riddle and any sign that he might attack, she pressed her wand to it.

" _Fateor vinculum_." Only a whisper, she felt the words down to her very bones. The spell crawled through her, coursing through both blood and marrow as it sought the cells containing the blood that had been transferred to her during the unwitting ritual he had done, the blood that had combined with hers. Her blood was boiling, coursing through her like it wanted to explode from every pore; she clenched her jaw, bore it with what strength she had, determined to show no more weakness in front of Riddle, determined to get back on even ground in this dangerous game.

From the soles of her feet to her the top of her skull, the spell moved through her. Invading, _seeking_ , almost cruel in its relentlessness. It rose out of her through the tattoo and the snake twisted and writhed in its inked pain while a headache slowly built in her from gritting her teeth so hard. First indigo light—her chakra, state of mind—then green, which surprised her. Soul, heart. The colors entwined in midair, beautiful and unnerving all at once, dancing a dance so fast they blurred together, almost combining but never quite finishing. Sinuously, it moved through the room. Searching, she knew, for the green light's blood.

The disturbing dance of light coming toward him snapped Riddle out from whatever trance he had been under. He stumbled back, almost tripping in his hurry to get away from it, but the spell was unrelenting—and unforgiving.

"Stop it!" he yelled at her, jumping up on and over the side of someone's four-poster bed. Hermione witnessed what would be unheard of for others. Lord Voldemort, completely and utterly terrified. Interestingly enough, it didn't make her smile in the delight she would have thought she'd have.

"It's useless to run," she said wearily, the spell rapidly depleting her magic. She was now an anchor point for the spell, it being still attached to her tattoo with a headache pounding in her skull with the force of a jackhammer to complement it. "Just let it," she said, not knowing where the words came from but knowing it was the right thing to say. "Just be."

"Make it —!" He didn't finish his sentence as the spell caught the scent of his blood and, like a bloodhound with a full pedigree, honed in on him. It snapped up in the air, a snake rearing to strike, then shot toward his tattoo. She didn't know whether it had sensed his desire to flee or would have done it nevertheless, but it sped toward him like a bullet with his name on it.

She had expected it. The scream of unbearable agony. But even as she flinched from the sound, turning her head away, she couldn't block out the intuitive pain it shot through her, knowing it could have been _her_ experiencing it. Knowing that only a chance of fate had given her an escape from what he was now going through.

Unbidden, sympathy rose inside of her. She squashed it like an irritating bug, refusing to address what it meant, like she had done so many times before. He _deserved_ what was happening to him. Hermione had learned this the hard way herself, so knew it was the world's form retribution for being ignorant and reckless while messing with unknown strong magic. She couldn't—she _wouldn't_ —get involved. She made herself watch what happened when the light touched his own tattoo. Though it was covered with his dress robes, it went through as if it wasn't there.

He grabbed at his robes, pulling them up and scratching, scrabbling at his tattoo as if he could pull out the light with his bare hand.

She was sure she was imaging the smell of burning flesh. She had to be. No one would willingly go through this if this was the outcome.

Unable to do anything but watch, with the knowledge that it would end in only a few more seconds, she closed her eyes. Trying to block out the sound of his increased desperation, she focused on ending the spell before it drained her of her magic entirely. Even with the _unus pactus_ ring, it was almost unendurable to be the source of this particular blood binding. Just any other knife, any other material, and they could have avoided this.

 _If he hadn't stole the book in the first place, that is._

When all the sounds left in the room were his choked, shuddering breaths, she knew the spell was finished with them both. Standing up from where she found herself crouched against the wall, she took a few steps forward, a morbid fascination with his pain making her more reckless than ordinary.

A bigger person would have looked away and waited until he calmed down to approach, but Hermione had already contented herself that she was not a bigger person, and had no qualms—other than getting hexed for her trouble—about drawing near him.

Almost immediately, after staring in dumb silence as he lay panting on the floor, she wished she hadn't. He was on his knees on the floor, shaking arms barely supporting his weight. Tears she instinctively knew had been wrung out of him by the pain dampened his cheeks. Shivering violently, sweat soaked his previously pristine robes and hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"What," he gasped out, tremors going down his spine as he kept his eyes on the floor, "did you do to me?"

She didn't placate him. "I revealed the bond that's between us, part of us, now. It's made up of the colors of the chakras—from a form of spirituality from the Indus —"

"I know what it is," he snarled, not looking at her, fingers curled against the stone floor. "Those" — he nodded disgustedly at the rope of color still connecting them — "are not all of the colors. There are more."

She gave an exasperated huff. "If you would let me _explain_ , please." When he only glowered, tremors lessening, she went on. "There are only two colors because these are the ones we are most attune to in our own bodies. Even without the spirituality of yoga meditation—or experiencing what they call the kundalini—these are the chakras we connect with mentally the most. Indigo for me and green for you." _Which wasn't as strange, now that she thought about it._ "This is a visual of the bond we now share."

Finally, he looked up at her and she took an instinctive step back from the vast amount of anger those eyes contained.

"You seem to be thoroughly educated in this _ceremony_ ," he said slowly, a tic in his eye.

"I read it in a book when I was young and was intrigued about the process. I researched. It's—"

"—what you do," he finished snidely.

"Yes," she finished lamely. She looked around the dormitory apprehensively, afraid one of the seventh year boys would come in and see Tom Riddle on his knees, seemingly at her feet.

She knew one thing. She couldn't let _that_ happen. She remembered what Dumbledore had told them before about the crimes that had been committed during Tom Riddle's school years. Terrible deeds that couldn't be traced.

She shivered.

"You'll be fine, rejuvenated, actually, in a few minutes," she told him and stepped back to sit on what she thought was Cygnus's trunk.

True to her word, Riddle was up and pacing in a record five minutes while she herself was feeling a pleasant contentment incongruous to her grim thoughts. Having fixed his robes and appearance— _how vain could one boy be?_ —he walked a straight line across the dormitory. Back and forth, back and forth as he ignored her questions, intently focused on the tread he was wearing in the stone floor.

"What do you know about this ritual? What's it's name?" He spit out the questions rapidly, always moving. "I've never heard of it, never seen it."

"Well," she mused, happy to talk instead of getting a crick in her neck watching him, "since the revealing spell showed our chakra colors, I believe we're in archaic ritual territory. Which could mean either breakable or unbreakable. And if it's breakable, we'll have to do it soon, before the Ministry finds out."

"It better be breakable," he growled at her. "I don't want this on my permanent record."

She narrowed her eyes. "Not my prerogative, Riddle. Without _your_ interference, none of this would ever have happened."

"That is neither here nor there," he said, waving it away.

 _Because then he would have to claim culpability for this mess,_ she thought, wanting to pull his head out of his arse and show him the real world where people claimed responsibility for their actions.

She couldn't repress her sigh. _Slytherins. She would had the feeling she would_ never _understand them._

"If the binding _is_ breakable, we will be able to break it by manually severing this tie that connects us," she informed him. "We'll have to go to the library to see the proper— No!"

But it was too late. Riddle's wand was already descending, cutting a wide arc through the air as she watched in slow motion. Feet feeling as if they were weighed down with cement blocks and stuck in a bog, she lunged toward him, hand outstretched and a shrill cry on her lips.

As soon as his wand hit their connection with the intent to cut it, she felt her insides jar, like her body had just suffered a small earthquake, rattling her bones and shaking her organs. Every molecule of blood in her body felt distinctly out of place, just more victims of the natural destruction going on inside her. Her body stayed on its path however, and she found herself throwing herself on top of him, knocking the wand in process of cutting through the last layers of spell-made light out of his grasp.

Her momentum pushed him backward and, hands gripping his shoulders, she went with him.

"Oomph." Cushioned from the fall by his body, her bones still felt as if someone had pounded on each one with a handful of bricks. And it _hurt_.

"What are you doing, you witless girl?" Riddle snarled, and she realized just what kind of a position she was in. Straddling his stomach, robes having ridden up her legs, she knew what people would see if they came in. She thought it might be time to get out of there, but her new sense of self-preservation wouldn't let her.

Clearing her throat, she flushed pink, but didn't allow herself to be intimidated off him. Finally she got it together enough to glare. "You were about to kill yourself, you idiot. Not to mention _me_!"

She couldn't let that happen. If Tom Riddle died, there was no telling how the future would come about. The consequences would be terrible, the Wizarding world falling to some new and infinitely more sinister evil than before. It could mean the death of everybody she loved in the future, including Harry, including her parents, including _her_. If she let Tom Riddle die—stupid mistake of his own or not—she would be subjecting the world to the kind of chaos it could never come back from. _Such was time,_ she thought; it was just the world's sadistic streak that _she_ was the person served with protecting Riddle. It wouldn't matter as much if _she_ died, however. It would be just another mystery for the future to puzzle out on their own.

"I thought you were _smart_ ," she growled, making to stand up. The thought of her death mattering little was almost unbearably depressing and she wanted to get away, leave the person who had invoked those thoughts. Unfortunately for her, that was the exact moment that the door opened and three very sloshed wizards walked in, laughing and joking and other things drunk people often did. It was obvious they had spiked the punch.

"Why, _hello_ there," Abraxas said, stopping in the doorway and waggling his eyebrows at her as Cygnus and Randall walked into his back, jostling him. The three boys looked from where her robes were showing her legs to how she was straddling a flat on his back Riddle.

Hermione turned a shade of red a fire truck would be envious.

Riddle smiled.

Abraxas winked saucily.


	12. Act Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** ; I do not own Harry Potter or make money off it. I am just a poor teenager with a dreadful case of inspiration.

_"Love thy neighbor—a_ _nd if he happens to be tall, debonair and devastating, it will be that much easier."_

—Mae West.

* * *

Hermione sat and stared at her bowl of cereal. The stare was hard, angry, and a desperate chorus of _Why God, Why?_ passed continuously behind her eyes.

The cereal was unforgiving. Though it did like the attention, it was growing soggy.

"I'm quite impressed, Miss Dumbledore."

She almost groaned at Abraxas's amused drawl as he sat down in Riddle's empty seat. Her face flushed instead. His death would be a slow and painful one—right after she murdered Tom Riddle, slapped that silly look off Wilkes's face, and danced naked in the ensuing time rift.

"I like a witch who goes after what she wants," the blond continued, unaware of her rapidly devolving mental state as he plucked a piece of toast from a platter. "Shows commitment."

"You and Draco are just regular comedians, aren't you?"

Her heart dropped to her shins with a painfully loud whoosh. Abraxas threw a confused look over at her.

"What?"

"Huh?" was her masterful reply.

His furrowed his brow before apparently remembering it made frown-lines appear and cleared it. "Who's Draco?"

 _I don't know. Your grandson, Draco?_

"A... constellation, I believe." She feigned confusion, looking like she was barely resisting the urge to raise her hand to his forehead and check his temperature. "Northern Hemisphere. Ring any bells?"

A dawning light shone behind his pale eyes. He nodded his head a few times, a slightly moronic blankness to his face that reminded her too much of many of her Gryffindors and their aversion to studying.

"Right." There was an air about Abraxas, like he had been thrown into a pit with dancing poodles and hadn't quite figured out the steps yet.

Hermione smiled brilliantly before going back to her breakfast.

When she was sure that Abraxas was paying more attention to the chests of the witches at the Hufflepuff table, she closed her eyes in horror. _Of all the stupid, moronic, plebian things to do!_

She frowned at the last thought. _Plebian?_ When had she added that to her vocabulary? It was something only pompous Purebloods said, and she was sure she had heard it being overused in the Slytherin common room, thrown out as insults to other students or teachers. Knowing that, she wondered when she had adopted it.

Well, she reasoned, it wasn't like she had called someone else it. Only herself.

Fully wrapped up in her delusion, she dismissed it, mind moving on to the next thing on her list of things to worry about.

Like being married to a certain Dark Lord.

Damn Murphy's Law!

Married. She never recognized how ominous every syllable of the word sounded before now, when she could ascribe it to herself.

She felt more than saw Abraxas slide down the bench to make room for Riddle.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

McGonagall shot him what she must have thought was a death glare, but its effectiveness was lost by how easily the elder Malfoy deflected it.

"Your mother is in the next conference room, Mr. Malfoy," she said without looking at his spot by the stone wall, still Avada-ing his father with her eyes. "She's waiting for you."

His heart lifting, he risked indignity as he almost ran out of the room, and left McGonagall and Lucius Malfoy alone with the echoing bang of the slammed door.

"You look well," Lucius drawled slowly, breaking the tense silence that had reigned since she arrived. "Considering the state you were in the last I saw you."

Minerva looked at the boy that she had watched grow into the wizard sitting before her. She remembered his cocky, boyish arrogance the many times she had caught him after curfew with many a disheveled witch (and maybe one wizard, if memory served correctly); the abysmal state of his pincushion in his third year. The contempt she held for his father.

He was the spitting image of Abraxas Malfoy. If Abraxas had been starved for three months and hair had had a disagreement with the Whomping Willow, that is. Baggy uniform with equally baggy eyes.

Minerva quashed the pity quickly; she knew his cunning nature hid low, like a rake in the grass. She'd best keep her wits about her and forget about this compassion business.

Her brusqueness would not go as easily.

"Why did you call me here, Lucius? I can't say I have time for any foolishness, so you'd best be quick."

Lucius gave her a contemptuous look. It was a look that clearly said, _Spoilsport._

Minerva stared back stonily.

The Death Eater sighed and reached into a pocket no bigger than a Chocolate Frog Card, and just about as thin, too. He pushed the small folded piece of paper at her.

At first glance, the couple didn't look familiar. Then, as the sun rises over the horizon, it dawned and her recollections were as sharp as ever.

"But—" She shook the cobwebs out of her head, and her lips became a firm line. She wasn't in favour of showing weakness to Lucius Malfoy, and this had caught her unawares. Draco hadn't mentioned…

 _Of course he hadn't, the Slytherin._

She made the word sound as if it were a rash you were reluctant to let a Healer see.

Hermione. But it wasn't the overworked, frazzled Hermione Granger Minerva had been used to seeing, walking hunched through the corridors of Hogwarts, ten stones of books on her back. Or the Hermione Granger she had experienced after the war was over—the defeated air around her, though they'd won, her listlessness and her manners mechanical and an afterthought.

No. This Hermione was collected, though a faint spark of something shone faintly through her cool photo-filtered eyes. A sort of wildness that comes from wartime, with too many responsibilities piled on and seductive voices saying _Just put them down. There's a good girl._

It was the Hermione that she remembered. Who sneaked biscuits into the library with her. Who waved Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalries off, either casually or with a well-aimed glare.

The one who confused her so.

"Where did you get this, Lucius?" she snapped, throwing the picture carelessly to the table. She didn't look at it again.

"A little bird," the blond said dismissively. When he saw her look, he added, "An owl."

Minerva clenched her jaw. It was lucky (for Lucius) that her wand had been taken away from her, but her cane had been looked over and subsequently dismissed as harmless. She'd show the guards just how harmless a cane in a mad witch's hand was.

It crossed her mind that they were probably already expecting it, and that they would most likely look the other way and start whistling if they heard any screams from the room she occupied with a branded Death Eater.

Suddenly feeling very old, and very vulnerable to the human pitfalls of life, all of Minerva's anger whooshed out in a single, weary sigh.

Lucius, feeling as if something had been taken from him, answered her initial question.

"The Dark Lor—Voldemort—" A flicker of pain crossed his face. "After He released me and the others from this place after the Department of Mysteries fiasco, He took up residence in my manor. It wasn't quite so desperate for the Malfoys at the time, and my Lord sent me on fact-finding missions. Specifically for close female friends of Harry Potter and any witches who were known supporters of Dumbledore, a Pureblood or half-blood relation. He gave me a physical description, which I knew only one young… witch fit into."

His words were recited as if he had run through the words through his head a million times and only these made sense.

"Hermione Granger," Minerva said, a faint but ominous tingle in the back of her mind already knowing where this was going. So he had known, or suspected, and had set his Death Eater to find her.

The look in his eyes turned predatory, and the room turned chillier despite what all it had seen when Dementors glided through the corridors. "I want consideration for my crimes," he said, not bothering to deny them for the sake of show. "For my wife and son, also."

She drew herself up in her chair, a sick knowledge in her heart. "In exchange for?"

Lucius leaned forward, the tips of his long, greasy hair dragging along the steel tabletop.

"Information." His lips clearly relished the word, as one might a chocolate parfait, and his eyes went dark as his own game began. "On what your star pupil was really up to during the Dark Lord's brief reign. On what she is possibly still up to, and how you can find her."

The morning after, Minerva McGonagall sent in her notice to testify on the Malfoys' behalf.

* * *

Cygnus sat down beside her at lunch without a word, the same mulish cast to his face that had been there since he had sat down beside her at breakfast. She was sure that if he were able, he would have moved to sit with the first year Slytherins. He hadn't spoken to her during classes—not even during their paired project in Astronomy—and his eyes never stopped on her for more than half a second.

His mouth seemed to be in a permanent frown, and as she focused half of her attention on whatever Riddle was saying to the group at large, she noticed it getting darker.

Mortification.

It was not a word that Hermione could easily get used to. It involved humiliation, but one that left a roaring buzz of a thousand angry hornets that started in her ears and worked its way down almost the entirety of her chest. She could feel the burning red it left in its wake with ruthlessness akin to a Blast-Ended Skrewt being locked in a cage with a blanky and a stuffed animal.

A long time ago, when she had been young and dogging Ron and Harry to quit fighting and had briefly lived up to her nickname 'Badger', she had made a promise to herself that she would never let anyone make her feel that way again.

Unfortunately, those anguished tears, that she had thought could never be outstripped, were nothing compared to having been caught with her robes hiked up to her thighs while straddling a wizard.

A wizard she had been warned away from by Cygnus himself.

There were just some things that one couldn't come back from. This was one of those things for Hermione Jean Granger.

She picked at her salad, sure that she could keep nothing down with all the churning going on in her gut. She ignored Riddle's and the other's smirks and barely concealed glee at her expense—much as she had been doing all day—and fought back the tears that wanted to slip through her strong façade. Her only friend was ignoring her.

"Tom, will you and Hermione be—"

Cygnus stood up, throwing his napkin on his plate as he pushed angrily way from the table. Hermione, not hiding her interest, watched with a steadily sinking heart. Wilkes looked on, barley concealing his glee while Abraxas only raised a mocking eyebrow at Cygnus's dramatics.

She bit her lip, hesitated only a fraction of a second before standing, and preparing to go after her only Slytherin friend.

"Sit down, Hermione." Riddle didn't even glance in her direction. "Leave him."

She paused and stared down at him, a chill spreading through her limbs. The sharp reminder of who he was and what he would do made her anger bubble to the top, almost simmering out of her mouth to

curse him. Confined in her melancholy thoughts, she had forgotten what had started all this in the first place.

She was Hermione Granger, a girl who, at eighteen, had helped defeat him. He needed to be reminded she wasn't one of his clueless lackeys, always ready and willing to be at his beck and call. And he needed to be reminded _now_.

She turned and strode off after Cygnus, repressing the shiver at the hostile stare of Riddle and his groupies aimed at her back.

"Cygnus, wait up!"

The tall boy didn't slow up, but continued stalking away from her and down the hall. He could do Severus Snape pride with that kind of stalk and _I Murder Puppies_ aura.

Hermione followed, careless of her surroundings as she tried to catch up to Cygnus. It hurt that he was avoiding her, walking away from her, but it hadn't been her fault. If anything, it was Riddle's fault for trying to kill them both by dangerously trying to manually sever the bond before checking to see if it _could_ be severed. She had saved her life— _okay, both of their lives, but there was no need to revisit_ _ **that**_ —which was no reason to treat her as if she was a new leper in the colony.

"Cygnus!" she called again, anguished voice echoing in the Slytherin dungeons she had followed him to.

He spun around quickly, surprising her, and the air reeked with barely restrained violence. She had never seen her well-mannered, cool friend so angry before, and it scared her. The hard lines of his face, added with the bright light in her eyes, reminded her too much of Bellatrix, and the stolen wand warmed in her hand.

"What do you want?" he asked, his tone not betraying the anger radiating off him.

"I—" _What_ _ **did**_ _she want?_ She wasn't even supposed to be here, in this era, so why was she so hurt by Cygnus Black avoiding her?

She was attached. The realization rocked her, and she almost took a step back from the mind-blowing strike. But there was no refuting it. She was attached, and would eventually be hurt when she returned to her own time. She had committed the cardinal sin of time-travelers (according to _Time and its Enemies_ by Stroker Gerome), and when the time came to go back to her hectic and not at all peaceful post-war period, she would lose her best-friends all over again. Not Harry and Ron, however. She had already lost them, in a way, long before she came to Tom Riddle's time.

Cygnus and Minerva, however, would be gone, and she'd be left alone once more.

"I wanted to say thank you," Hermione said quietly. Cygnus screwed up his face in confusion, a look rarely seen on him.

"What for?"

She took a deep breath, memories from first-year haunting her mind and making her blush. "For—for being my friend. It… Thank you."

She turned and walked back the way she had come, intending to burn off her embarrassment and the suspicious burn in her eyes by looking for a way to get out of her marriage in the library.

When she got there, she headed straight for the rarely occupied row of the Restricted Section. She let her head fall back onto a shelf, and closed her eyes on the dusty books as tears gathered at her lids.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be married to Tom bloody Riddle or be reluctant to leave Cygnus and Minerva. She was supposed to be busily trying to find a way _back_ to her time, not further establishing herself in this one—accidentally or otherwise.

Opening her eyes, she let her emotions wash over her, cleansing her mind of them. Then she got to work.

* * *

The library was deserted by the time Riddle came through the doors, a murderous expression on his face. Hermione took it in, and was surprised she didn't immediately punch him in the face.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snarled as soon as he was in distance.

"Well, I've always had the belief that libraries are keepers of knowledge and wisdom, Riddle," she answered sweetly, surprised when he didn't immediately punch _her_ in the face.

His eyes narrowed to slits, the heat of brutal intention rolling off him in waves as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Why did you send a note _ordering_ me to the library this evening?" he rephrased slowly, the words barely getting through his gritted teeth. Didn't he know that was bad for his teeth?

She smiled again. She could do this—play a part—all day. She'd been playing one since she got into the past, and, if she said so herself, she was quite the good little actress.

"Just returning the favour, husband," Hermione replied sweetly. Before his face could turn even more murderous, or just jump off his skull and hit her with an axe itself, she hurried on. "I think I've found our unintentional ritual."

She tapped the rather pitiful pile of books stacked on the table. "The selection was sparse, but I found it in _Undertakings of Love—and Where to Reverse It_."

"I'm very glad you know the basics of research, Dumbledore," Riddle said quietly, in a tone one used when you could barely stop yourself from banging your head against a table. "But I don't believe I heard the word 'counter-spell'."

"Ah, yes." Hermione shuffled uneasily, looking anywhere other than Riddle. "That's why I asked you to come. Most of these are in Latin, and I haven't found anything pertaining it in the few English or French volumes. And Latin's always been a slower read for me," she babbled, aware that her words were disjointed and that she probably looked a fright—her face and hair streaked with dust, eyes red and suspiciously glossy— _from dust, of course._

Riddle stared at her, studying her blankly until she was forced to look away.

"Fine. What's the name of the ritual?"

"Lover's Bond," she answered, already settling in for a long night of ignoring his existence.

* * *

Hermione stared at the open tome in front of her, willing it to tell her something, anything, that could get her around this new obstacle. Obstacle. Such a nice, pretty word, when really she was fucked. The epitome of fucked. Barring an earthquake decimating the Hogwarts castle, there was no further way she could bungle the past and change the future.

Lord Voldemort married.

Lord Voldemort married to Albus Dumbledore's niece.

Lord Voldemort married to a time-traveler who, with a quick peek into her mind, could help him achieve world domination by moving a few relics to an unused cupboard.

There was no doubt. She had buggered it all.

 _Fuck._

"How can there be no counter-spell?" Riddle repeated, as a three year old might ask why he has two mommies. It was the third time he'd repeated it, tone ranging from unbelieving to desperate, and she was increasingly considering putting a Full-Body Bind Curse on him and leaning his body in the corner of the History section. No one ever ventured there.

"There has to be one!" he whispered furiously, eyes bloodshot and not remotely similar to the cool, calm Head Boy. His perfect hair was mussed and sticking up in places from too many times running his hands through it.

Hermione, in contrast, had her elbows on the table, fingertips touching and face carefully blank. A storm was brewing inside her, and one move from would lead her to throw Riddle to the Giant Squid to just get rid of all her dilemmas.

With the future Dark Lord gone, she reckoned she could live quite happily in the 1940's.

"There has to be a way," she said, more to stop herself from cursing him to death by mollusk than to reassure him. "We'll find it. We might have missed something in the Restricted Section."

She didn't think it was possible, however. They had already left the library when Mr. Hester had shooed them out at closing time, then come back under Disillusionment Charms to finish their frantic search. It was past 2 A.M. now, and her head ached for her pillow. They had also missed dinner, and her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her she had barely touched her food at meals.

"Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?" Riddle asked abruptly, pushing back from the table.

The unexpected change of topic calmed her, her mind for once off marriage rituals. "Yes. I'm going with Minerva."

"Now you will accompany me," he told her flatly as he stood. "Meet me in the common room at eight."

"Wait—what?" Hermione stood also, not wanting to be in a lower position than him. "I'm not spending an outing with _you_ , husband or not!"

He ignored her, stuffing quills and inkpots into his schoolbag. "I have a few sources who will likely have the information we need, or who can find it for me. You have your license to Apparate, right?"

"Yes, but—" Frustrated, she shook her head. When she saw the stubborn set of Riddle's jaw, she took a deep, calming, _I will not kill him_ breath. "I promised Minerva. It won't be difficult to go wherever you want to go at noon instead. Plus, it'll give us time in Hogsmeade."

Riddle took a similar breath to hers. Maybe he was just as frustrated with her, though she couldn't understand why. She thought she was being perfectly reasonable.

"Fine. Goodnight."

He left her there, feeling frustrated, confused and wondering when she had started caring how she affected Tom Riddle.


	13. Act Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** ; Don't own Harry Potter series, am not J.K. Rowling, etc. etc. Make no profit, etc. etc.

" _The well bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves."_

—Oscar Wilde.

* * *

Hermione adjusted her cloak, grumbling to herself about demanding megalomaniacs and the women they forced marriage on as she trudged straight into a demanding wind.

Everything had gone extraordinarily wrong—though, really, how could it go _right_ when she wasn't supposed to be here in the first place? To think, she had thought it was confusing when she was changing-but-not-changing the timeline by saving Sirius and Buckbeak. Confusing didn't even cover the situation she was in now.

She shivered in the biting wind and pulled her self-heating scarf up until it covered her mouth and cheeks. Frozen leaves crunched under her feet as she made her way through Hogsmeade village, to the section populated with more houses than businesses. Riddle had told her to meet him at a certain one, yet she could not find him in front of the white-picketed cottage when she reached it. She scowled and stamped her feet, hoping to stamp some of the chill out as she studied the neighboring houses for signs of life. She didn't want to be caught loitering on her first Hogsmeade outing, especially when the Ministry already held a grudge against her.

 _But when have they haven't?_

Well, at least in _her_ time, the Ministry liked her. _Honored_ her, even, after the war. She was even on good terms with the Interim Minister of Magic, Shacklebolt. Didn't seem feasible now, not when she was stuck in the 1940's and not one of her friends or professors or even brave and loyal Shacklebolt knew where she was.

It wasn't fair, she knew, but she'd gone beyond railing against the unfairness of things when she was stuck with _Tom Bloody Riddle_. Plus, how many times had she already ranted and raved at the gods for sticking her in the mess in the first place? She was on her own, and talking about fairness wouldn't help her any which way.

She pushed the thought away, already exhausted.

The door to the cottage opened up behind her, showing a grouchy Tom Riddle standing in the doorway, beckoning her inside with a scowl.

"Whose house is this?" she asked as she looked around the sitting room.

"No clue," Riddle answered, making her hand stop mid-motion as she had begun taking off her scarf. She looked at him, mouth gaping. When he didn't say anything more, just stared blankly back at her, she let out a pitiful groan.

"Breaking and entering," she whispered, staring at a set of trinkets on the sideboard like they would come to life for the sole purpose of arresting her.

"Don't be so dramatic," Riddle said blithely, stepping past her to pick up a backpack he had left on a sofa. "Abraxas is having an affair with the owner. She's letting us use her home as an Apparition point."

Hermione's gut unclenched, just a little. "Thank Merlin," she sighed, feeling lighter.

Riddle grinned, white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness of the room. He grabbed her arm. "I lied. We need to leave. Now, preferably."

She could do nothing as he spun and Apparated.

"You are a total arsehole!" she shrieked, jerking her arm out of his grip as soon as they arrived—wherever they were. "And you brought me to the slums? Gods!"

"If your senses are so delicate, madam," Riddle sneered as he straightened his coat. "I, for one, would like to dissolve this marriage as soon as possible."

Hermione settled for sending him an ice-coated glare, for the timeline's sake.

"Where are we?"

"Behind Flourish & Blott's, actually." He gave her a smug little grin. "But our destination is Knockturn Alley."

"Of course," Hermione said solemnly.

So close to Halloween, the streets of Diagon Alley were decorated with orange and black, though without Hogwarts' vanishing bats. Hermione followed Riddle, barely conscious of the people passing them by on the flagstone street. When her companion turned on the lane that would lead them to Knockturn Alley, he looked back only once before he pulled the hood of his cloak up. Grumbling, Hermione did too.

She had only visited Knockturn Alley once before, when following Draco—Malfoy at the time—to Borgin & Burke's. She had been so reluctant to believe that he could be a Death Eater, reluctant to believe in Harry again after he had led them to the Ministry where Sirius was murdered, that she had barely put any effort into questioning Borgin about what Malfoy had bought. It hadn't seemed worth it at the time, until she found out how wrong she was with Dumbledore's death.

She stiffened her shoulders. She could do something about it, change everything with just a flick of her wrist. Riddle was still in front of her and his broad back was the perfect target. No one would suspect her. No one knew where she was, who she was with. She could do it. Harry wouldn't have to go through the hell that was his childhood. She wouldn't have to fight the forces of evil at the tender age of eleven on upward.

Riddle stopped suddenly at the door of what looked like a rundown building, the foundation barely holding it up, making the whole building lean precariously to the left.

He opened the door and signaled her in ahead of him. Her opportunity was gone.

 _With good reason too,_ she chastened herself as she stepped inside. _To think, believing she could change time so easily, without even considering the ramifications._

The inside of the shop—at least, she assumed it was a shop—was small and crowded with tables draped with dingy linens. Barely any light shone through the windows covered with blackout curtains, and what little did come through was dimmed by the dust and grime of the glass. She moved cautiously, pushing her thoughts out of her mind and expecting at any moment to knock over tables cluttered with an odd and messy assortment of trinkets, parchment and books. She lowered her hood so she could see the shadows in her peripheral. This didn't seem the place to being blind to her surroundings.

"Greetings," came a whisper from the darkness at the back of the shop. Hermione stopped, but Riddle propelled her forward, toward the voice and the darkness that frankly screamed _doom_. His grip on her arm was rough, not inviting her to pull away like she desperately wanted to do. Everything was cloaked in dust and darkness and no one knew where she was.

"This is Madam Amber. She'll be able to help us," he murmured as they reached the edge of the darkest shadows from where the voice had came.

A match struck; Hermione blinked at the woman who was revealed as she held the fire to a candle. From the hoarseness of the voice, she had expected a hag of some sort, but this witch looked like her picture could be substituted for the definition of Black Widow. Long blonde hair hung to her waist, iron straight, while her face was soft, just inviting a man to lean into her greedy claws. She looked like an angel.

The witch gave her a penetrating look. "Who is your lovely friend, Tom?"

Hermione had the feeling it was more _women_ than men getting snatched up. She restrained herself from taking a hasty step away from the lust in her eyes.

"Hermione." He offered no more and Madam Amber glanced at him sharply; Riddle looked bored. "We require your services."

"Oh?" She finally looked intrigued, and sat up, her black shawl making her look less and less angelic. "Would you like me to gaze into my crystal ball? Tarot? I guess Love Potions are out of the question... unless you need to supplement your own?" Her pale eyes narrowed at Hermione in consideration.

Hermione bit her tongue so hard it bled. Tom Riddle looked like he could cast the Killing Curse with a grin.

"We need to sever the tie binding us," he said in a tone that said suicide would be a better alternative.

The woman stared at them, her eyes assessing the couple they made. "But Tom," she finally said, "how could I separate true love?"

"Oh _please_ ," Hermione snapped. She turned to Riddle. "I'm leaving. I won't let her try to swindle _me_ out of my gold."

She turned to walk away, which she realized was a mistake—a crucial one—as the witch said, "You would do well to leave this time, girl."

Hermione flinched and turned slowly back. "What - What did you say?"

The witch had stood, and her pale eyes were now dark with something. Something other and not of this world. "I know who you are, Hermione Dumbledore, who you were and are now. You would do well to leave now."

"Are you threatening her?" Riddle's face was stone fury.

Madam Amber's eyes turned back to what was now an almost boring shade of green, as she relaxed and lowered herself back into her chair. A smile teased her lips. "Advice, my dear," she said to Hermione in a cool voice. "Free of charge."

She seemed entirely focused on Hermione now, smugness curling her lips. "Now, a severing? Do you know the binding ritual used?"

"Lover's Bond," Hermione answered, ignoring her companion's look of extreme loathing for being left in the dark.

"Ah." Madam Amber tapped a long red nail on her bottom lip, still staring at her. Hermione didn't mind; she was staring right back. How had the woman known? Was she like Professor Trelawney, but commonly able to See things? Or did they come randomly, like her former sherry-loving professor's?

Once Madam Amber had assured them she could break the bond between them, they left with her warning ringing in Hermione's head. It had definitely sounded like a warning. Hermione was determined to get answers from the Seer, but it would have to wait until another time, when Riddle was not stewing silently beside her.

"What did she mean?" he hissed as soon as they had made it back into Diagon Alley proper. His jaw was tight with tension. "Was that a threat against you? 'You would do well to leave'?"

Hermione shrugged, looking away. "I don't know—she seemed a little deranged to me."

Riddle stepped toward her, voice a menacing growl. "You are hiding things from me, wife." She struggled away when he tried to grip her arm. "I don't appreciate people lying to me, Hermione, and I can smell the stench of them on you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione said and stepped away from him. "It's getting dark; we should get back to Hogwarts."

She Apparated to Hogwarts, leaving him glaring at air.

 

* * *

 

Minerva frowned at the empty Slytherin common room, wondering where her charge—the one she was supposed to be watching at all hours to make sure he didn't get into any Death Eater shenanigans—had gotten to.

She waited in the dark common room as she sent her Patronus out to look for him. She looked around the room while she waited, wondering how Hermione could have spent seventh year in this depressing space. It was better than a tent with two hormonal teenage boys, she reconsidered. But, still, she'd had to deal with Tom Riddle.

After remembering how often she herself had to dig into her liquor cabinet after dolling out punishments to sixth and seventh year Gryffindor boys for one reason or another—mainly just the one—she thought that Lord Voldemort may have been the better deal.

When her silver tabby cat reappeared, lighting up the Slytherin common room like a torch, Minerva followed it out of the dungeons and to the library doors.

They opened quietly under her touch, and she entered with only a whisper of cloak on stone. The massive room was chilly, empty and abandoned by all but the most faithful to the written word. It had received considerable damage during the siege on Hogwarts, and not many people were willing to rebuild a room full of books when there were dormitories to restore and crumbling foundations to reseal. Months later, however, the restoration was almost complete. Only the ceiling was still cracked in places, though Madam Pince had done her best to make it stable so it wouldn't fall in and crush her precious books.

The library was deserted, the only sound Minerva's heels clacking as she wended her way through empty study tables as she followed her Patronus.

She found Draco Malfoy slumped over at a table by a window, his face in the middle of what looked like a complicated text. She held back a worried frown and reached over to gently pull the large tome out from under his head.

"Wuh — What?" Draco exclaimed groggily, sitting up so fast that bones in his neck cracked.

"Good afternoon, Mister Draco," Minerva said, trying and failing to keep the amusement from her voice. Draco wiped spittle from his cheek, already red from the pressure he had put on it. "I've come to bring tidings of your mother's trial."

The Ministry had seen fit to deny the boy from attending, citing that bringing a barely legal wizard, with so many restrictions on his wand he could barely light a candle without Aurors being notified, was simply too dangerous to permit. His father's trial would be next month, after the Aurors were satisfied he had given them everything he could.

"Yes?" Draco's eyes were guarded, but his hope couldn't be repressed from his voice.

"She'll be placed in a hotel room in Auror custody—there are too many dangers right now for her to go back to Malfoy Manor, even if the Ministry released your ancestral home. She'll be protected."

Draco's spine relaxed fractionally, exhaling relief like a balloon.

"Of course, this does not mean she is out of trouble. She's been placed on active probation until further notice." _Meaning it would be removed when she was cold and dead in the ground._ Draco nodded, not even concealing his jubilant smile.

"I—thank you, Professor," he said, still smiling and not looking at her, stuck in his happiness as he was.

She couldn't help but feel pity, but pressed it down to speak frankly to the boy. He didn't need pity.

"I can't assure you that your father's trial will go the same way. He has a much more heinous record than your mother—not to mention he escaped from Azkaban after trespassing on Ministry property and attempting murder on six of my students."

"Right. Of course," Draco said as he ran his hand through his hair, looking down at the book he had been assaulting with his face. "I won't get my hopes up."

It was a throwaway comment, and Minerva didn't believe him for half a second, but sat down beside him just the same. She nodded at the book. "Studying for next school year?"

He scoffed, then realized he was sitting next to the Headmistress. His cheeks turned a faint pink. "Ahem, I, uh, was studying time-travel."

Minerva pulled the book toward her, studying the Arithmancy formulas and what looked like a set of instructions before turning a critical eye to Draco. His cheeks had been drowned by a tide of pink, and he wouldn't meet her eye.

The book looked very Dark and very dangerous.

"It's only natural to explore what we do not understand," she finally said, leaving the book on the table as she stood. She hesitated then finally relented—they couldn't turn down dangerous options simply because they were dangerous. "And be careful, Mister Malfoy. Your parents would be terribly worried if anything… out of the ordinary happened to you."

There. She had warned him off—though she didn't think of how she had worded it so that she gave him her permission. No, she very carefully didn't think about that at all.

 

* * *

 

He paced in front of the window in his dormitory. Hermione was hiding something from him, he knew it. Her face was so expressive that she could hide nothing from him. She had seemed afraid in Madam Amber's shop. Afraid of _what_ was the question.

— _You would do well to leave this time, girl.—_

— _I know who you are, Hermione Dumbledore, who you were and are now. You would do well to leave now.—_

 _Had she been to Madam Amber's shop before?_ It would explain her aversion to going further once they were in her shop, once she had spoken.

He frowned. No, that didn't sound right. Madam Amber had been in that shop since before Tom was born. Hermione would have recognized it from the outside and shown her reluctance then.

"Leave… but where to?" he mused.

"Pardon?"

Tom looked over at Cygnus's bed where the voice had originated. He and Hermione were still on not speaking terms, Cygnus avoiding her wherever he could. It pleased him in a way; even though Cygnus had told him he had no designs on the witch, Tom was still reluctant to let their friendship continue so closely. But now he didn't have to add that to his list of things to worry about, a list growing out of control since Dumbledore's niece had been Sorted into Slytherin.

"Just thinking aloud, Cygnus," he murmured, still pacing.

"You'll wear out the stone if you keep up the way you've been," Cygnus commented idly, ignoring his textbook in favour of picking at his nails.

"If the lake starts to come in, I'll take your warning into consideration."

The Black heir looked at him, eyes considering. "Would you, though?" Tom stopped walking, the tone of his voice forcing him to concentrate on him completely.

"Yes?" He made it a question.

Cygnus set his book aside, and cocked his head thoughtfully at him, looking for all the world like an overlarge bird of prey.

"Your trust in me has lessened this year—almost disappeared, even. My Lord," he added belatedly.

"You've decided to turn your back on our cause, Cygnus?" Tom asked, picking up on the subtext underneath and moving toward him.

Cygnus tutted at him, gaze turned back to the play that was his nails. Tom felt his always simmering anger light up, but tamped it down firmly.

"I think our causes are two very different things."

"You did not believe so this summer," he said slowly. He didn't understand; Cygnus had been one of the first—the first to encourage him onto this path, though Tom knew he never believed he, a lowly half-blood, could make it so far.

"You had Abraxas and me by your side. Now you have Randall at your right side."

Ah, so it was jealousy.

"I can't help but think that you've changed… and not for the better, Tom," Cygnus continued. He finally looked up, his jaw set and unmovable. "What are you planning for Hermione?"

A smile curled his lips, one he knew made him look like the perfect, well-adjusted Head Boy. Poor orphaned Tom Riddle.

"I don't know what you could possibly mean."

He sat on the end of his bed across from Cygnus, who was giving him a disgusted look.

"Surely you don't think so little of me, Cy. I would never _use_ Hermione for anything." He paused for a beat. "But if she were to volunteer…" He looked at Cygnus through hooded eyes. "I couldn't possibly refuse her anything."

"If you hurt her—"

"You'll what?" he interrupted sharply. His eyes blazed as he stood. "Maybe you should remember, _Cygnus_ , just _who_ you swore an oath to. Not Hermione Dumbledore. _Me._ " He bared his teeth in what looked more like a threat rather than a smile. "Now—do you have any other questions, Cygnus?"

Cygnus stared at him. "No," he bit out finally.

Tom waited.

"My Lord," Cygnus finally said through gritted teeth. He radiated ill-will.

"Then leave."

The dormitory door shut quietly, but it might has well been slammed so hard its hinges fell off, the sound was so loud to Tom. He cut himself off before he could swear out of frustration. He had no doubt that now Cygnus would try anything he could think of to thwart him, though he would never be able to break his Oath.

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired with this whole mess. Cygnus's discontent, Hermione and whatever she was hiding, Dumbledore and his damn twinkling. He had other things to worry about now, mainly discovering what was happening in Grindewald's camp. He had heard rumours that he was setting up base near Durmstrang. Stupid of him, Tom thought. The school was hardly fit to stand under a siege like Hogwarts was, though he admitted that the accessibility of the school depended on the protections set around it by the professors.

He shook his head, incredulous at how his thoughts were going that night. First, Hermione and her secrets, then Cygnus bringing up the past, now battle plans.

Tom froze.

— _I know who you are, Hermione Dumbledore, who you were and are now.—_

Her past, he realized. The Seer knew something about her past.

He started pacing again, focusing on this new answer to his question.

But what could be so exciting about home schooling? No, something wasn't right there. There had to be something else in her past, something her love-obsessed Uncle didn't know about—why else would she look so frightened about what Madam Amber had said?

He realized, as he began pacing again, that he had come full circle.

 

* * *

 

Hermione, now used to being without Cygnus almost everywhere she went, walked behind a group of rowdy Hufflepuff sixth years on her route to lunch.

She never had much time being herself anymore, so she lingered, listening to their upbeat voices. Cheerful. More cheerful than she had heard since entering the 1940's. Everyone in Slytherin was so damn _cool_ , as if being genuinely happy for something was punishable by death. The Hufflepuffs laughter rang through the halls, filling her with homesickness. Homesick for this very same castle, but with crumbling walls and empty common rooms and the determination of the few who had stayed to rebuild it.

She slipped into the Great Hall behind the Hufflepuffs, searching for Minerva so she wouldn't have to sit beside a silent Cygnus. And Riddle.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," Dumbledore said from beside her, making her jump at his ghostlike arrival. His beard was braided today, with shiny purple beads that complemented his jewel green robes.

"Professor," she replied politely. If omniscient was a color, Dumbledore would be wearing it all the time with a special mood ring. Right then, however, she didn't feel like dealing with his all-knowing self when she already had a migraine of epic proportions that was quickly making a new home for itself in the back of her skull. Not only a little because she was trying to hide the fact that she was Mrs. Tom Riddle from him.

"How is young Riddle?" Dumbledore asked, unintentionally voicing the object of her worries. "I hear you have been spending more time with him outside of scholarly boundaries."

Her hands tightened on the strap of her bag. "I -" _Don't know what to say._ She thought her adopted Uncle was taking this parental role he had assumed a little too far if he was starting to question her about, well, what she assumed he thought was her _love life._

"Of course, with people your age, it is expected that you will fall in love," Dumbledore continued, oblivious to her thoughts which were now screaming in mortification. She could feel the blush as it spread. He glanced at her sideways. "Though I have to admit, this commitment of yours seems to have went a tad bit fast."

"Er—" She could have slapped herself. "Well, Professor, I don't intend to know your thoughts, but I believe you're mistaken about the Head Boy and I having a… a commitment," she finished, hedging on the words. "We hardly know each other."

"Really? Hmm." Her Uncle tapped his chin thoughtfully as he came to a stop far enough away from the Slytherin table so no one could hear them. His blue eyes were too sharp for their conversation. _Great. Another thing she had to worry about; whether or not Albus Dumbledore was using Legilimency on her._

 _She wouldn't put it past the old codger. She always thought that he reveled in knowing everything for the sole purpose of putting people off guard._

"You know nothing about the esteemed Head Boy, you say?" Before she could answer, her heart beating in her ears, he clapped his hands and rocked back on his feet jovially. "Well! I say your future will be remarkably eventful. I'll leave you with your friends. However, I do wish to meet with you after my last class today."

He nodded to her Slytherin 'friends' as if he didn't know they had been straining to overhear them, before heading off to the teachers table. Her plan to sit by Minerva for lunch thwarted, she tried to hide her bitterness as she sat between Cygnus and Riddle.

"It's nice that you have a genial relationship with your Uncle," Randall Wilkes said from Riddle's other side.

Hermione didn't even try to hide her glare, not fooled in the least by Wilkes's carefully casual remark. Why could no one just _ask_ what they talked about? Ron and Harry would have no qualms over snooping into her life; they often had. But Slytherins were a whole other species, one where snooping was a bloody sport. _Bloody_ being the operative word.

"How is your mother's vacation in France?" Cygnus asked Wilkes before she could reply. She watched, fascinated, as Wilkes paled.

"Fine," he gritted out after a moment. "She sent a letter last month." He went back to his lunch, hand fisted on the table. Abraxas snorted quietly.

Cygnus leaned over, shoulder brushing hers. "They summered in France," he whispered low enough for her to hear. "But Mrs. Wilkes didn't come back."

She smiled, a slow, secret smile that unintentionally broadcasted her happiness to the others. Unnoticed as she reached for a platter of food, Riddle cast a suspicious, loathing glare at Cygnus over her head.

Cygnus smiled back.

 

* * *

 

Lucius Malfoy needed a good drink. He also needed a shave, his own clothes— _charmed to hide any imperfections, like his pointy ribs (and knobby knees)_ —and a nice long bath.

Unfortunately, Minerva McGonagall ignored his requests, though she'd had him escorted by two Aurors he didn't recognize to his ancestral home so he would tell her what he knew.

She didn't understand a trade at _all_.

He knew he rated _some_ accommodation, though, so he waited until Minerva huffed in aggravation and summoned a bottle of Ogden's from the cellar before speaking.

"Hermione Granger," he started. "When first I saw her, I recognized her as the Muggleborn Draco spoke so disparagingly. I admit, I was a little disappointed that my son's rival for top marks was" _—unworthy to walk Hogwarts, bucktoothed, plain and a social pariah with that nest she called hair—_ "Well." He smiled at Minerva, who was glaring at him steadily. "You can imagine."

"Indeed," she remarked dryly. She handed him the tumbler she had fixed. "If we could get to the reason you're here."

Lucius closed his eyes as the smoky liquid went down his throat, soothing dryness that came from having to drink as much as he could at a time, not knowing when next the guards would give him water to go with the slop they called porridge.

"Ah." He barely restrained himself from smacking his lips. He was a prisoner, for Merlin's sake! _Not_ a degenerate. He found his glass empty and handed it to Minerva for a refill. She obliged grudgingly, and he continued.

"The first time I saw Miss Granger _is_ important to my story, however. The meeting was remarkable, as soon after Arthur Weasley started a fist-fight with me in Flourish  & Blott's." He shook his head. "A _brawl_. Honestly."

Before he could get into one of his spiels on the spawns from Hell that were the Weasleys, he remembered himself. _A few months in a Dementor-less Azkaban and he was going crazy; at least_ _ **with**_ _Dementors he had kept tight control on his facilities, especially his mouth_

"It was a memorable meeting," he summed up. "So then, after his return, the Dark Lord asked me to find a witch with considerable skill, unruly brown hair, a relation to Albus Dumbledore and a high position on the side of Light. He didn't know her age, but surmised she would be young—not yet a full witch.

I searched for three weeks. To him, finding this girl was a top priority and I could not do my duties or" _—see his family, sleep in his bed, live in his home—_ "attend any meetings until I found her."

It had been punishment for putting Tom Riddle's diary right in Dumbledore's hands, along with letting the prophecy get destroyed. He had hated it at the time; on a fruitless search for some common witch while Voldemort slithered into his home and terrified Narcissa on a daily basis. Finding Hermione—who'd met all of the requirements except for her being related to Dumbledore—had been a stroke of luck, with a side of desperate longing for his search to be over.

"I happened upon a picture of Hermione Granger in my son's yearbook from fourth year. She didn't fit all of the requirements, yet I was coming to the deadline." From the agitation on Minerva's face, Lucius skipped over the parts that weren't pertinent to what he wanted to share. "He ordered me to bring a more recent picture, so I found one that had been printed in the _Daily Prophet_ —printed along with an article on something or other about Potter."

 _He really needed to get in control of his mouth,_ he thought as he drained the Ogden's. _Inebriation would not help with that aspect._

He shook his head when she made a move toward the bottle. She sat back in the high chair of his sitting room while he relaxed in his favourite cushioned chair by the fireplace.

 _Soon,_ he thought. _He would be home again. Soon._

 _They all would._

"His orders were strict. My compatriots and I could not go out of our way to get to Hermione Granger. Her capture would have to happen naturally—as if the best-friend of Harry Potter would willingly walk into my arms." Again with the mouth! "At any rate, it was clear that we were working with Time. We searched everywhere we went, trying to find even a hint of the Muggleborn.

Yet it was my - the Dark Lord who found her first."

"But," Minerva interrupted, frown lines marring her forehead and pulling down her mouth. "She never mentioned—" She shook her head, adamant, anger rising on her cheeks. "You're lying. Guards!"

The two unknown Aurors came through the door as if they were on fire. Both were big and buff, not being underfed and without unnatural looking wrist bones.

Lucius didn't move from his chair. "I am _not_ lying. There were two of them at one point. One who was romping with Potter and the youngest Weasley boy through the woods and into my esteemed sister-in-law's Gringott's account, and another who Lord Voldemort kept in the private wing he took as his own."

"I -" She looked sick as she motioned the Aurors away. "You saw her? This second Hermione?"

"I had no wand," he said simply. He lifted his chin. "I was the weakest because of this" _—even Wormtail had a wand, not to mention his unnatural artificial hand—_ "and I was the one who found out her identity for Him in the first place. I learned after that only Narcissa and I were privy to the circumstances."

"So you acted as what?" Minerva asked.

"I brought her food, clothes, books and studying materials for seventh year," he answered. "I only saw her sporadically, however. My - Lord Voldemort forbade me from the wing she was held in for long periods of time, though when I was ordered back, she hadn't starved."

 _Or been mistreated in any way that he saw._

"But what was she doing here?" Minerva said, her voice so low she could have been asking herself. Lucius answered anyway.

"I presume only the Dark Lord knows." He inclined his head with a smug smile. "And Hermione Dumbledore, of course.

"But there is one thing you should know." He waited until he had her full, undivided attention. "Lord Voldemort called her his unwilling bride."

It was the first time Lucius had seen Professor Minerva McGonagall shocked silly.

 

* * *

 

"Gods!" Hermione put a hand over her heart while Riddle only raised the patented eyebrow at her.

 _She would have to put a bell around his neck or something._

She glared. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't know?" If possible, Tom Riddle had reached the pinnacle of smugness. "Your Uncle called me to his office after his last class."

"But he called me here too!" She frowned at the door, hearing the murmurs of the third years her Uncle was with now. "I wonder what he wants with us."

Riddle put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer with a mischievous grin. "I wouldn't know; he's your Uncle."

His arm was hot on her shoulders, and it felt like all the blood in her body was rushing toward it, her whole being centered on her contact with him.

 _What was_ _ **with**_ _him today?_ she thought, pushing away from him. "Get your paws off me, Riddle," she growled. He let go of her, smile still firmly in place. She straightened her book bag, eyeing him. "Did you spend too much time over a cauldron?"

Smug and smugger. "I was just showing you affection, Hermione," he said smoothly. "Isn't that what married couples do?"

Hermione put her hand against her forehead and _pushed_ , hoping the memory of this moment and his almost flirtatious side would be pressed out. And hoping Tom Riddle would go die in a fire.

"I hate you," she murmured, hand still to forehead.

"But Hermione," Riddle lied , "I adore you."

Luckily for Hermione, a group of Ravenclaws were passing by and started giggling at his pronouncement. Riddle almost preened at the show he was putting on.

"What is with you?" she whispered harshly, glaring pointedly at the girls until they had the decency to look away after doing some glaring of their own. "Haven't you tortured me enough?"

Riddle turned serious, all playing gone, staring at her until the corridor was empty and they were left with the barely there murmur from the Transfiguration classroom.

"You don't want my affection," he said, as if the thought wasn't new to him, but hearing it was still unexpected.

"I don't want any part of you," she replied, jaw clenched. "The only thing I want from you is for you to _go away_."

Anger flashed in his eyes and he moved toward her, cornering her between him and the stone wall. "Unfortunately for you, my naïve little wife, I _own_ this school. If you continue to defy me like your habit has been lately, I will happily ruin your life." He smiled to reinforce this. A smile perfectly charming and sweet— _poor little orphan Tom_ —and absolutely chilling. "Your association with the uptight Gryffindor ends today. Now."

Hermione squared her jaw, ready to fight. To kick and scream and choke him with his perfectly ironed tie. Instead, she stood straighter, though nowhere near his height.

"But if I did that, my delusional husband, that uptight Gryffindor would talk to Uncle dearest and I'm sure he would be _very_ surprised at your extracurricular activities in the dungeons."

Of course, Hermione didn't even _know_ what he was up to, but it wasn't inappropriate to assume he was doing Dark Lord things. Riddle stepped back, surprise etched on his face. It was gone in a flash, his anger returning and forcing him back against her.

"What have you told her?" he growled.

Hermione lifted her chin. "Enough that if I get so much as a paper cut, Professor Dumbledore will have you thrown into Azkaban."

The lie spilled easily from her lips. Living in the past was doing wonders for her abysmal lying abilities.

Riddle leaned down so his mouth was only a hair's breadth away from her ear. "You continuously surprise me, Hermione," he whispered, each breath teasing her skin. His hand rose to hover by her neck. His closeness stifled her, his spicy cologne filling her nose. "It is… refreshing."

His hand closed around her neck, and just as suddenly he was kissing her. Her blood sung in her veins, and her hands twisted in the front of his robes. It was like an avalanche, like someone had thrown a single rock on a snowy, sky-high mountain and what had been a still, quiet day, suddenly became a giant-like roar with no warning in between.

They were both gasping into each others mouths, his hands clumsily caressing every part of her he could reach, and her making ridiculous little noises she knew she would blush at—later. Much later. He jerked her bag off her shoulder and books and quills tumbled out as it fell, but it was no match for the disaster that were her insides.

The door opened.

Riddle pulled away as if burnt, which was exactly how she felt. His lips were red and swollen and she just wanted to— She looked away and straightened her robes, not even thinking about glancing in Riddle's direction again as she kneeled to put her bag to rights, the sound of students leaving her uncle's classroom ringing in her ears.

 _At least no one had seen them,_ she consoled herself as she closed her quill case. She reached for her Arithmancy text and startled away when Riddle's hand closed over hers.

He was crouching across from her, his expression tightly guarded.

"I'll get this. You go on ahead."

Not questioning his reasons like she would normally and eager to get out of his general vicinity, she stood and pushed past straggling third years and into Dumbledore's classroom.

"Ah, Hermione!" exclaimed Dumbledore from beside his desk. He looked behind her with troubled eyes. "And where is young Mister Riddle—oh, there you are, child."

The Head Boy nodded at Dumbledore. When Dumbledore looked away to twiddle with something on his desk, he handed her her book bag, and the look he gave her shouldn't have been legal. _Probably wasn't._

Fortunately, Dumbledore was still oblivious, or just acting like he was, and he ushered them into his office and closed the door behind him. He rubbed his hands together in joyful anticipation of whatever he had to say.

"As I began to do at Professor Slughorn's little get-together, I wish to congratulate you two on your nuptials."

Hermione flinched.

If she had expected anything, it wasn't that. Neither, it seemed, had Riddle. He had that look on his face, the one where everything went blank as his brain assimilated the fact that things had gone way off plan.

"Er," Hermione said, and cursed herself. "Well," she started again, staring at a purple bead in Dumbledore's beard. "Accident, really. Getting it severed."

She shut up before she could do any more damage.

 _Complete. Sentences._

"What she means is" _—that it's all his fault!—_ "that our relationship progressed at an astonishing rate, and it was a spur of the moment decision." He gave her a loving look that Hermione just _knew_ he had practiced in his mirror. "Though, now that we've had time to think it over, we're looking for a way to get the binding severed, since neither of us planned to get married so young."

"Right." _What he said._ "But, Uncle Albus," she said slowly, "how did you know?"

"Oh, a friend in the Ministry informed me when the report of your binding arrived," Dumbledore said. He had shown no response to the lie that Riddle had told, so Hermione had no idea what he was thinking.

Probably something along the lines of questioning her morality when she had—from Riddle's mouth— _willingly_ changed the timeline so drastically. Not to mention how he'd told Harry he had always distrusted Tom Riddle and now the girl who claimed she was on his side in the future was married to him.

 _Now that she thought about it from his perspective, this didn't look good at all. She wouldn't be surprised if he locked her in a cupboard for the rest of her natural life._

She might go willingly.

 

* * *

 

"That went better than expected," Tom said carefully as they made their way back to the dungeons. They were a careful length apart, neither willing to breach the set lines and get close again. Tom because he knew what would happen. He could only guess what she thought. Though, he thought smugly, she hadn't found it distasteful in the Transfiguration corridor, her Uncle only a wall away.

Hermione snorted, jerking him out of his memory.

"I don't even want to know what you expected would happen if he found out," she told him. "That lie you told was pretty quick, though I think you forgot to mention that it's all your fault."

Tom scowled, hating her for bringing up that niggling fact. Again. This was why he had never taken a girlfriend. If he wanted to be nagged at constantly, he would have stayed in the orphanage instead of coming to Hogwarts.

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and instead focused on his unwilling bride.

"At least I could speak English," he retorted.

Her face turned sour. "Touché," she finally agreed. "On that note," she continued after a moment of blissful silence. "When will Madam Amber finish the potion?"

"The potion takes almost two months to make," he snapped, ire rising for no discernable reason. "She'll Owl me when it's ready."

"Fine," Hermione snapped back, voice just as chilly.

They continued to the common room in tense silence, where they were greeted with chaos.

 

* * *

 

Riddle sprung into action immediately, ushering the younger students back into their dormitories. Hermione watched the action consuming the common room for a moment before doing the same, her inner Prefect taking over and having to bully a group of catty fourth year girls to their beds.

"What happened?" she asked a fellow seventh year, having to raise her voice over the shouts and cheers. She noticed Riddle pushing past the thick throng of Slytherins clogging the room to the middle. Ambresia Parkinson was sobbing into her hands, though Hermione saw that her makeup was unaffected by tears.

She didn't hear her answer before she caught sight of Cygnus, who was watching the commotion with a critical eye and almost smug smile. She waded through the Slytherins, still confused as to what Slytherins were cheering for in the middle of the room.

By his side, she asked, "What's going on? What happened?"

Cygnus shrugged elegantly. "Abraxas and his mouth happened," he said. "Him and Randall are fighting. A _brawl_ , honestly." He seemed excited, though his words were disparaging.

Hermione muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath and left Cygnus to follow Riddle's path through the melee, telling anyone off who got in her way. Before she could get to the thick of things, a loud _boom_ sounded, shaking the walls and making several girls scream.

"Everyone to their dormitory," Riddle said, his voice magnified to an extreme degree. He didn't sound affected at all by the ruckus, though she could tell there was anger in his voice.

 _And how bad was it that she could tell his mood by voice alone?_

Before she could give the thought its due consideration, the people around her started moving away, still talking loudly about the fight, and she had to shove her way through the last few layers of students. _Gods! How many Slytherins were there? Did they multiply when she wasn't looking?_

Abraxas was on the floor, leaning against the sofa, dabbing at his swollen lower lip with a handkerchief while Wilkes was sprawled four feet away from him, eyes unfocused as he bleed profusely from his nose. Riddle stood between them, and Hermione could see his coldness from behind.

As the last straggler left for their dorm, Ambresia rushed to Abraxas's side, glaring at Wilkes's form. It was clear to see who had been the victor, but Ambresia was milking the opportunity for all she was worth. Only Riddle's Death Eaters, Ambresia and her were left.

Hermione held back her glare and kneeled by Randall Wilkes side. She held her wand over his chest, mentally abusing herself for helping the devious and mean boy. But she couldn't just let him stew in discomfort and pain. It was against her principles—the ones she had left, that is.

No one said anything—beside Ambresia cooing over Abraxas about how brave he was—while she ran a few diagnostic spells she had learned during the war on Wilkes. They weren't as efficient as Madam Curfin's, and nowhere near as good as Madam Pomfrey's, but they were enough to tell that Abraxas had broken one of Wilkes' ribs, his nose, and fractured his wrist.

"Boys," Hermione grumbled, and it felt like she'd been doing that most of her life.

A quick _Episkey_ healed his nose and wrist. She gently prodded at his broken rib, which made his eyes go from sightless to glaring in a heartbeat.

"You'll have to get some Skele-Gro from the Hospital Wing," she told him shortly, not expecting any heartfelt anything, much less gratitude for healing him. "Come on. You'll need help with the stairs."

"No."

Hermione spun to look at Riddle, shock in her eyes. "He has a broken rib."

Riddle ignored her and looked at Ambresia. His eyes were still cold, but he smiled gently at the witch. "You should go to bed now, Ambresia. I can handle this."

"But—" She looked at Hermione, wordlessly asking why she wasn't ordered to go to bed too, but when Riddle said nothing, she glared at her. "Fine." She kissed her boyfriend's forehead, gave Hermione another scathing glare, and headed off to their dormitory. Hermione had no doubt the Slytherin would find some way to get retribution for the unintentional slight.

"What about me?" Abraxas said once Ambresia was gone. He looked at her winningly.

"Soldier through," she said, disgusted at Riddle. She stood. "I'm going to bed."

"You will stay," Riddle ordered, not even looking at her and instead staring at Wilkes, who was struggling to get up into a chair.

Hermione, after a moment, went to stand beside Cygnus. Prudence took a higher place than pride at the moment.

"Now," the Head Boy started, "what brought this incivility into the Slytherin common room?" His nostrils flared. "Who dared to lower Slytherin house to Gryffindor levels?"

Hermione clenched her wand.

Neither Abraxas or Wilkes spoke, both looking in opposite directions of each other. The blond's smile was gone, his pride over having beaten Wilkes deflated.

"Nott, tell me what happened."

Looking supremely reluctant, Nott did so. Telling them of how Abraxas had mouthed off to Wilkes about his dismal family life and generally being his utterly an arse self, if Hermione understood correctly. Cygnus smirked at this, and she had the sinking feeling that he had been the one to organize this.

Randall had thrown the first punch, he said, which was damning for Wilkes if Riddle's expression was anything to go by.

"I see."

Hermione didn't see at all. They were making a big fuss over a couple of boys fighting. It was what they _did_. She didn't understand the need for such formality, the cold demeanor of Tom Riddle, and Abraxas' and Wilkes's abashed expressions, as if instead of Riddle catching them, it was Snape.

Then, catching Nott's respectful head nod to Riddle once he was finished, she could have slapped herself for being so forgetful. In lieu of everything—kissing Dark Lords included, which she very carefully ignored—she had forgotten.

 _He was already a Dark Lord to them._ Dumbledore had told Harry—and in turn, her and Ron—that in sixth year.

"I think I should leave," Hermione murmured loud enough for the Head Boy to hear.

"Nott will get a bottle of Skele-Gro from Madam Curfin and you will administer it once he gets back. If you'll heal Abraxas's split lip now, please, then… We'll see."

She looked at him like he was out of his mind—which he was, she remembered. Sociopaths tended to have less sanity than the average person.

 _If she had known she would be playing nursemaid to Death Eaters,_ she thought as she ignored Abraxas's leering and focused on his split lip, _she would have left off learning healing spells._

 

* * *

 

While the rest of the Ministry of Magic was bustling—people crowding the Department of Wartime Restitution and Support, fully-fledged Aurors running to and fro as reports of Death Eater sightings flew in, the Department of the Muggle Worthy Excuses Committee busy making up more… excuses—the Department of Wizarding Registries was empty of people. The only thing it had a majority of was boxes. They reached to the ceiling, the contents spilling out of some, and the smell of dusty cardboard overpowering. There didn't seem to be any type of order, and Harry spent a moment scratching his chin as the sense of being over his head returned full-force.

"Next," came a voice from a corner obscured by, you guessed it, boxes.

Harry headed over, trying not to trample a few sheets that had spilled from a tipped over box. He reached the desk, and wasn't surprised to find more boxes on it.

Behind what he could see of the desk was what Harry could only call a nasally man. He looked the type of person that his cousin Dudley would have spent quality punching time with after-school. Thinning grey hair and a large, bulbous red nose gave him the impression that he'd drunk away his youth a long time ago hidden behind the boxes that had taken over his life.

"Hullo," he said uncertainly when the wizard didn't look up from the issue of _The Quibbler_ he was hidden behind.

"Name?" the man responded drolly.

"Harry Potter."

Feeling a little silly that he had expected a response, Harry watched as the man kept behind his magazine. When the minutes passed and he had just opened his mouth to say something, the wizard picked up his wand from his desk without taking his eyes from the magazine and waved it in a circle.

Immediately he heard shuffling behind him, and he turned to watch, flabbergasted, as a three boxes filled with nothing but newspapers gently floated toward him.

Then two more boxes, then two more.

Just as he was beginning to panic, the Registries worker said, "That'll be one Galleon, fifteen Sickles and one Knut."

"B-but," he stammered, eyes wide at the price of just a few boxes. He had the money, of course, but it was the principal of the thing. "I don't want stuff on _me_. I want stuff on my friend, Hermione."

The man finally looked away from his paper, and his eyes were shrewd. "Why didn't you say so then, lad?"

"You didn't ask!" Harry exclaimed.

He rolled his eyes before going back to his paper. Harry stood there, feeling like he'd just met an intelligent troll.

"Name?"

Harry sighed. It was no use.

"Hermione Granger." He paused. "And any variation of the name Hermione Granger-Dumbledore."

There. Now he had all his bases covered, and McGonagall couldn't be angry at him for messing up her 'investigation'.

McGonagall was deluding herself if she thought she was running a competent investigation around his best friend. He was in-training to be an Auror and, because of all the close contact he'd had with the Aurors Division, he knew how a proper investigation should be handled. There were channels to go through, different departments to talk to, and different viewpoints to see through. McGonagall was lacking in all of those. She kept everything close to her chest, and never let anyone know what she had found. Harry didn't even know half of what she was doing, and was clueless to why he was even in the Department of Registries anyway. His old Head of House had only told him to come and request everything on Hermione. But he knew that if he handed them over right away, she wouldn't tell him what was in it or why it was so important.

This meant that he would have to do some digging himself—before he handed over the boxes.

There were about twenty boxes that he had to Shrink and put it into his pocket, not to mention the exorbitant fee to check them all out for a ten-day period. He paid it, grumbling. Since it was his day off, Harry went straight back home to the Burrow.

When he came through the fireplace, Harry found the lower level of the Weasley home empty; no food cooked in the kitchen, no chessboard set up in the den, no Weird Sisters came from upstairs. He briefly wondered where Mrs. Weasley might have gone. Ron, he knew, was at training camp and Ginny was more than likely at George's joke shop. He shrugged and set off up the stairs. It wasn't so much disappointing as it was good luck that no one was home. Ginny and Ron were prejudiced against anything pertaining to the search for Hermione—Ron's reasons he knew, but Ginny's were harder to decipher—and Mrs. Weasley was close friends with McGonagall. He didn't want to take the chance any of them would catch him with the files and tell the Headmistress before he could look at them and find out all he could.

Settling down in Percy's old bedroom, he took the boxes from his pocket and resized them back to normal. They filled his room, and all of the combined dust from the boxes made his eyes water.

After only an hour, Harry was stunned into just staring at the newspaper clippings scattered everywhere in his room.

The search for Hermione Dumbledore had went on for almost five years after she had disappeared. From what he could glean from the Daily Prophet, influential members of the Ministry had kept funding for it up as long as they could and, when they could no longer afford to waste resources and Aurors, had sent out for the Wizarding world's equivalent of bounty hunters to continue the search. They too had failed to find Albus Dumbledore's niece.

Sightings abounded, however. Shopping in Greece, a patio in Italy, nude sunbathing on the coast of Belize—Europe and Central America mostly. Once _the Quibbler_ started publishing, they had an article by someone who claimed to be Hermione Dumbledore saying she had started a Euro pop band "The Fairy Lites."

Hermione Dumbledore had turned into the Wizarding world's Elvis.

But when Harry opened the box of official records, Hermione's Elvis act disappeared from his mind as he learned the gritty truth.

Hermione Dumbledore was presumed dead—leaving behind only her husband, Tom Riddle.


	14. Act Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Do not own, make no money, etc etc.

"People should learn to see and so avoid all danger. Just as a wise man keeps away from mad dogs, so one should not make friends with evil men."

 **—Buddha**

* * *

Hermione woke up Saturday morning with the sense of impending doom.

Ah, sweet normality.

She stared at the canopy of her four-poster, not yet awake enough to contemplate stepping down onto the cold stone floor of the dungeons and starting the day. Her mind swayed from thought to thought, like a subtle wind dancing with the trees on a mild summer day. For her, the abstract thought always gave her the best results when dealing with a particularly difficult puzzle. Today she hoped to set right some pieces of her scattered life, if only in her mind.

She thought over what had happened the night before, pushing back the kiss with the Dark Lord to the back of her mind. It didn't matter that it was already full.

Cygnus. He was up to something, she knew it. She knew the critical, almost scientific, look in his eyes from the night before entirely too well, even for such a short time knowing him. Her intuition then—that he had instigated the fight between Wilkes and Abraxas—was only solidified when she remembered what he had said when he had stopped ignoring her, after he had responded to Wilkes' subtle jab at her at lunch.

" _They summered in France. But Mrs. Wilkes didn't come back."_

Hadn't Nott reported that Abraxas, in normal fashion, galled Wilkes about his estranged parents, and that was what had started the fight? And Abraxas had been there at lunch when Cygnus made mention of it.

Hmm. That brought her to another train of thought. What had made Cygnus forget about his plan of ignoring her existence? He had been doing an entirely good job of it before, _too_ good a job of it, actually. She hadn't realized how much lonelier she was without him by her side; even though she'd had Minerva to help cope, she hadn't been enough to keep the waves of loneliness and exclusion away.

But she pushed that thought away, too. She had more important things to think about, without bringing back memories of her first few months at Hogwarts when she was twelve. It was ancient history now.

So Cygnus had started their friendship again. What could he gain from it? Or, more importantly, what had made him start ignoring her?

Tom Riddle.

Well, _of course_. He disliked Riddle for some reason—and while Hermione knew why he should dislike Riddle, there had seemed to be a friendship between them before. He'd stayed with all the rest of the Death Eaters—

Cygnus was a Death Eater.

She pushed her too-hot face into her pillow, breathing hard through her embarrassment and fury. How could he— He didn't _seem_ like a pureblood supremacist. Sure, he thought he was superior to some types of people—Hufflepuffs, perchance—but did he want them _dead_? She gasped past the bitterness lodged in her throat, tongue tasting the scratchy cotton of her pillow.

 _No, he couldn't be—_

But denying it didn't stop him from being one.

 _Okay, okay, breathe, Hermione. It isn't the end of the world if one of your friends is a Death Eater._

Then why did it feel like it?

She opened her eyes, focusing on her original goal and pushing away the unnecessary thoughts. She could dwell on them at another time, then punch Cygnus in the face—

Not dwelling. Right.

So seeing her in a compromising position with Riddle, after he had expressly warned her away from him, had made Cygnus angry with her and start ignoring her. Then what had made him stop ignoring her?

Riddle again.

Perfect. Voldemort had brought her and her two best friends together in first year, and even now, when she was eighteen and in the 1940's, he was making and breaking her friendships. He was certainly an enterprising Dark Lord, she'd give him that _._

But that was wrong. It was the morning of the Halloween feast. Which meant… she'd been nineteen for more than a month and hadn't realized it.

She expelled her breath forcefully. Well, it was no use blaming herself. She'd had a lot on her mind, weddings and dream-attacks and everything.

Still. She sat up and pushed back the green curtains, letting out a little hiss as ice shot up her foot when it made contact with the stone floor. Some people—lovesick fools like Parvati and Ambresia—thought all the Hogwarts beds were curtained because the founders were secret romantics. Ha. It was a bloody stone castle in _Scotland_. It was damn _cold_.

Shrugging on her robe over her nightgown, she checked the time, surprised when it proclaimed it was only one at night. She'd went to bed at ten, when Riddle had finally dismissed her from the common room and his flunkies. She was sure they couldn't still be up.

And, even if they were, all she had to do was wait on the stairs until they went to bed. Either that or just go back to bed herself. But she hoped she wouldn't have to. She wanted to do this without any eyes on her.

Sticking her head out of the girls' dormitory entrance, feeling slightly amused at how ridiculous she would look to anyone in the common room, she was relieved to see it was empty of Slytherins, Death Eaters and otherwise. She stepped out, triumphant, and made her way to the exit.

"A little underdressed for sneaking, aren't you?"

 _Of course._

"Just leave it, Riddle," she said, not looking round. _Damn, damn, damn._

"Fine," he sighed. "Don't get caught." She almost spun around in surprise at his oddly morose tone. Instead, shaking it and him off, she went back to her original plan and escaped the Slytherin common room.

Having spent six years sneaking around the castle, every creaky stair and Mrs. Norris' haunts memorized, Hermione found herself at a loss in the dungeons. The boys and she had never had much opportunity, and even less desire, to sneak around the dungeons, on Professor Snape's ground.

And everything was so much _darker_ in the dungeons. Even the lit torches along the wall looked darker, more shadowed, than the usual ones. She shivered, hair rising on the back of her neck. She half-expected to see her breath in the cool corridor. Ignoring memories of her dream attack, she started toward the upper levels, hand tensing instinctively around her wand.

She calmed considerably when she reached the entrance hall and the dim, but bright light coming from the torches, illuminating the shadows so prevalent underground.

She made her way past the marble staircase, falling into memory as she reached her destination, not far from the Hufflepuff common room. Reaching up, she tickled the pear, smiling as she remembered how many times Fred and George had bragged about 'nicking' from the kitchens. Ron had thought they were so brave to do that when, in reality, all they had to do was _ask_.

Boys.

Hermione found herself smiling as the portrait door opened and she was met with the one thing that _hadn't_ changed over the decades. Wide eyes looked up to her, greetings called out as the elves busied themselves with laundry and baking. She wondered when they _slept_. Those closest to the door crowded around her. It was a good thing they only came to her waist, or else she might have become claustrophobic with so many creatures surrounding her.

"Er, hello," she said when it seemed none of them would speak up. "I don't mean to be a bother…"

"No bother, Little Mistress," came a bullfrog-like voice from the vicinity of her left hip. Looking at the elf that had spoken, Hermione found him—her?—oddly Kreacher-like. "Missy"—her, then—"will help you."

Hermione watched in bemusement as the elf shooed the others away and, looking oddly sad as they left for their other duties, dutifully sat down at the small table that Missy had ordered over for her use. When everything was put in place—Hermione included—in accord with Missy's specifics, she wiped her gnarled hands on the spotless apron over her tea towel. "Now, what is it you needs, Little Mistress?"

Feeling as if she was being chastised by Molly Weasley for being out of bed so late—she didn't even have to allude to it for her to hear it in her tone, Hermione blushed even as she answered. "I was hoping, I mean, I wondered whether—" At Missy's hard stare, she subsided with a small, hopeful, "Pie?"

Missy nodded before disappearing into the throng of elves behind her without a backward glance. She was back within seconds, several steaming pies floating along behind her, like goslings following their mother.

"Sweet or meat, Little Mistress?" asked the no-nonsense elf as the pies settled on the table. Hermione set aside the elf's odd name for her for another time—when she wasn't being teased by the delicious smells wafting from the freshly made pies.

"Sweet, please."

Nodding as if she had expected it, Missy began cutting into three separate pies, putting a slice of each on the plate in front of Hermione. Rhubarb, blackberry, and a mixture of apple and blackberry. It smelled _heavenly_ and Hermione's mouth practically began salivating at the thought. But when Hermione picked up her fork, ready to dig in, Missy's curt voice stopped her dead.

"Little Mistress will _wait_ until I's is done before eating."

Feeling as if she'd just been slapped on the knuckles, Hermione sat back in her chair, eyes wide as she looked at the little elf that reminded her so forcefully of Molly Weasley with a pinch of disapproving nun. Well. It looked as if all house-elves weren't as docile and obedient as she thought they were, though Missy seemed to be a minority, just like Dobby, if the way the other house-elves edged fearfully around her as if they would catch her candor was any indication.

After a glass of warm milk was set beside her and Missy nodded her approval and stepped back, Hermione looked timidly at the house-elf before taking a bite.

She had been right. It was _heavenly_.

Closing her eyes, she moaned and did an internal jig as she celebrated her birthday. Sugar and rhubarb exploded on her tongue, almost obscene in its delicacy. She found her anger at Cygnus pushed away and abandoned for a more appropriate time, her fears of the future and the past set aside as flavours teased her tastebuds and blanked out her mind.

When she opened her eyes, it was to find Missy still standing beside her, an odd sort of pride in her eyes. As soon as the elf noticed her watching her, she smiled with sharp, pointed teeth.

"Why do you call me Little Mistress?" Hermione asked, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer.

"You is Master Dumbledore's heir," she answered, pointing at the Dumbledore ring on her hand. "And you is little."

"Oh." Hermione frowned as she speared another forkful of pie. The ring sat heavy on her finger. "So you're Professor Dumbledore's personal elf?"

"I is assigned to look after Master Dumbledore's well-being," Missy said, which was probably the most answer she was going to get. "Do you need anything else from Missy?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, this is more than enough. Thank you."

She watched as Missy returned to her kitchen duties, a small frown on her lips. Hermione had realized quite a long time ago that pushing freedom on a species that revolted against it was just as cruel as the elder Malfoy abusing Dobby, _more_ than cruel, actually, since she had tried to _trick_ them into taking hats and socks. She had recognized that she would have to convince them rather than force them to take wages and clothes if she was to ever have any success with S.P.E.W. They had to embrace freedom of their own free will or else it wasn't freedom at all, just a harsher form of enslavement since they would be homeless and without money. She'd never had any chance to try this, however, seeing as she had been fighting in a war and camping through the wilderness the year immediately after her realization.

But now was not the right time either, no matter how much it hurt to see Hogwarts run on slave labor.

She tucked into the rest of her pie, feeling at home in the busy kitchen as she never would in the Slytherin dungeons.

She was happily full when she reentered the common room, ready to fall into bed and a sugar stupor. She was also fully ready to ignore the brooding Dark Lord sitting in front of the fire, waving to him only as an afterthought as she passed him as the merest sign of her acknowledgement.

"I suppose you're happy that _Cygnus_ "—his lips twisted unpleasantly—"has deigned to speak to you again."

Hermione paused, but then kept walking toward her dormitory. She didn't have to put up with this; not now, not today. "Quite," she responded glibly, also ignoring the flare of anger at his mention of a wound still raw.

"I wonder." Despite her inner mantra, she found her steps slowing at the entrance to the girls' dormitory as she waited for the rest of what he would say. Hatefully, she curled her hand around the stone doorway, her nails scraping against the wall and sending involuntary shivers down her spine.

She still didn't look at him.

"What?"

"Oh," Riddle said, as if he were really surprised that she was still there. "I was just wondering if he would be so… _friendly_ toward you if his father wasn't suspected of supporting Grindewald."

 _That arrow was well-aimed_ , she thought, flinching as it struck where it hurt most.

"One cannot know," she said quietly, hating how shaky her voice came out. "Goodnight, Riddle."

"Tom, Hermione," he chided gently.

She had never hated anyone more. Still, she couldn't force herself to look at him, even as she screamed at her feet to turn around. She _needed_ to do this, she needed to fight back. But her feet remained rooted to the spot, and she stared, unseeing, into the darkness of the girls' staircase.

"What do _you_ want from me, _Riddle_?"

She heard a shuffle, then jumped when, after a moment, hands slid around her waist as his body molded itself to her back. She tensed, closing her eyes as her blood sung in her veins from being so close to its partner, the twin of her own life force. No. She had never hated anyone more than _this_ moment as, quite against her will, she leant back into his touch like a love-deprived puppy.

"I, unlike Cygnus, have never wanted anything from you," he said, his low murmur hitting her in all the right— _wrong_ —spots. "Not friendship, not connections, not"—his hands tightened on her hips—"company. Nothing, except for you to be yourself. Our circumstances might have changed, but I have not."

 _Our circumstances might have changed_. She repressed a snort.

"Would you deny me the friendship that you give Cygnus so freely?" he whispered, nudging her hair out of the way so his whisper hit the skin of her neck, the soft shell of her ear. "The loyalty he has never earned?"

"He—" She coughed the shake out of her voice. "He has _more_ than earned my loyalty. You, you would see that if you knew what _friendship_ actually meant."

Riddle chuckled, lowering his head until his lips touched her neck, branding her with the mere contact. "Then I can only hope you will oblige me by enlightening me on the true meaning of friendship, Hermione."

She took a shallow breath as his hands slid to her stomach, the smooth cotton of her nightgown bunching under his hands. He caressed her slowly, gently, stopping just short of her breasts, though his thumbs smoothed over the sensitive undersides. Every synapses in her body seemed to be firing, and she shifted uncomfortably even as everything inside her screamed for her to get closer, to climb inside him if she had to, in order to get more of that indescribable… _thing_ he was giving her.

"We will be bound together no matter what you decide, Hermione," he continued, his voice hatefully strong while everything shifted inside her. "Even when this bond is severed, we will still be tied together by experience. You can't change the facts, Hermione. The only decision you do have is whether to adapt and change with it, or remain stubborn and be left behind. Evolution, as the Muggles call it."

"How would you have me _evolve_ , Riddle?" she asked, rankled that he was using Darwinism in his dubious quest for her _friendship_. "All you seem to want are slaves, not equals."

She felt him stiffen behind her. Oh, he hadn't been expecting that, not at all. She smiled lazily, feeling like the cat that had found the nip. She was easily able to ignore the feelings he incited in her now. Turning around and stepping out of his embrace, she turned that smile up at him. "I, for one, do not have the required obedience for a slave. Goodnight, Riddle."

Her bed was cold when she finally slid under the covers, the hangings firmly shutting out the rest of the dormitory. She didn't care though. It erased the heat that her body wouldn't let go of, Riddle's heat.

 _Call her to you_ , the whisper came again. Tom supposed it was meant to sound reassuring, a mere suggestion and not an order. Instead he felt suspicion sliding around him like a snake in dark water. He turned in his bed, the covers twisting around his waist.

He didn't want to call her to him; he had been rebuffed one too many times this evening. He didn't know how to call her anyway, didn't know why he should. A frown touched his lips, destroying the beauty of his innocence in sleep.

 _Call her to you._

A demand this time. The frown grew deeper, a line between his brows showing his unease. _Why?_ She was a nuisance, a _Dumbledore_. Just because the hat put her in Slytherin didn't mean she was worthy.

His hands reached out of their own accord, wandlessly calling. Silently, the book rose from under his bed, the wards protecting it falling away as it reached him.

 _Call her to you._

The frown melted from his lips and he sighed in his sleep. His fingers curled around the book.

"You know," Tom said, voice rough with sleep, "my badge could get taken away if anyone found you here." His arm didn't move from around her.

"I, er, that is to say—"

Snickering at her expense, he nudged aside the great bush of her hair in order to see her confused and frankly terrified eyes. He frowned at the sight. "You mean you don't remember coming in here, sneaking into my bed sometime around three?" She shook her head, looking more confused than ever.

He stared hard at the side of her face. She _seemed_ truthful enough, but he knew her uncle was a fantastic liar, though he'd never caught him in one.

He fell onto his back, his arm dropping off her side and coming to rest on his stomach as he stared at the dark canopy of his four-poster, a frown on his face.

So what had happened?

"Um, Riddle, nothing… happened, right?" she asked, still facing away from him.

"No," he growled, chafed by how small and terrified her voice was. Was he that disgusting to her?

He focused on the memory of that morning, but it was sluggish to rise. Had she really snuck in and slipped under the covers? He couldn't remember exactly what had happened, only that he had wakened to find that his arm wasn't wrapped around a ridiculously warm pillow and that he was being smothered by a sentient head of hair not his own.

"You don't remember?" he asked, and found that his voice was just as shaky as her own. He was being played, they both were, and he didn't like that one bit.

She bit her lip as she turned onto her back, a peculiar camaraderie between them as they examined the canopy of his four-poster. "No. I don't remember waking up at all, much less walking out of my dormitory, through the common room, and slipping into your bed in the dead of night. Without slippers, no less. Though, I suppose—" She turned suddenly, and looked over the side of the bed. "Nope. No slippers." She settled back onto the bed with a little sigh.

"Any habits of sleepwalking?"

"Nope. You?"

"I can assure you that I did not _carry_ you out of your bed and into mine," he said harshly. In the silence after his declaration, Hermione sniggered. He glanced at her quickly. "What?"

"Just imagining you as someone who 'spirits young maidens away,'" she said, still sniggering.

"I can kick you out of my bed, slippers or no," he said seriously. She subsided after a moment, lips still twitching.

He contemplated the canopy, noticing the odd spot here and there in the fabric as their situation ran through his mind. Hermione arrives in his bed, no memory of her journey, only an hour or so after rebuffing him. It was definitely a mystery.

"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

The question surprised both of them, but he kept his face expressionless when Hermione turned to look at him, impatiently pushing her hair away.

"The Muggle character?" Tom nodded and she made a little 'hmm' noise, pursing her lips as she looked back at the canopy. It seemed to be a safe place to look. "It _does_ seem like his brand of mystery," she finally said, startling him by agreeing with his internal musing.

"I used to read his stories when I was young," he said slowly, unsure of his reception. "I've always been fond of them. Very sensible." _Not like the fairy tales the rest of the children were so fond of._

His four-poster was very silent, excepting the soft sounds of their breathing. He half-closed his eyes, wondering if he would be able to get to sleep if she stayed in his bed. A stray thought of the time went through his head.

"We're not going to start telling our life stories now, are we?" Hermione asked, breaking the silence with a tremulous voice. He snorted at the mere suggestion. "Good." She sounded very relieved.

"How did you hear about Sherlock Holmes?" he asked after he had established that it would be very hard indeed to fall asleep next to her. He propped himself up on his hand as he turned on his side, looking down at her as the sheets pooled around their bodies. Hermione patted down the sheet between them, ostentatiously to keep the chill air out.

"My mother—I told you that she favoured Muggle arts, yes? Well, she used to read some of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's shorter works to me when I was young. _The Red-Headed League_ , _A Scandal in Bohemia_ , off the top of my head." She smiled fondly, fingering the cuff of her cotton nightgown. "We used to try and guess the outcome of every story."

"And did you?" he asked before he could reconsider.

Silence. Then, "I don't remember."

"Imperius?"

"I'd know," she said, catching onto his meaning immediately, sounding tremendously pleased to get off the subject of her mother. Hmm. When he raised an eyebrow, she blushed. "Dumbledores take learning very seriously," she said defensively.

"I'm sure," he said dryly. "But that still doesn't explain how you came to be in my bed. Unless you've somehow _learned_ how to Apparate inside Hogwarts and were unsatisfied by your sleeping arrangements? I thought not."

Hermione got a pinched look on her face, which meant she was mentally chasing a lead. He'd seen it too many times in their search for the name of the ritual binding for him to forget it.

"What about the book?" she whispered. "Have you opened it recently?"

Tom shook his head, frowning. Sure, the book had unintentionally bound them together, but she was talking as if it were actually _sentient_ , which was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

Hermione exhaled forcefully. "Well, that's out," she said, which didn't quite match with the relief in her voice. She leaned over again, giving him a view of her shapely legs as her nightgown pulled up, and peeked through the curtains. After a moment, she said, "I forgot all the windows look out at the lake."

Tom laughed silently, earning a glare as Hermione pulled away from the curtains. He looked at his clock. "Almost time for breakfast," he told her. He glanced around the dormitory, ignoring the chill he let in, seeing that all the other four-posters were tightly curtained, as they usually were on Saturdays. He eyed Cygnus's for a moment longer, then pulled his head back into his own bed.

He nodded when she asked if his dormmates were still sleeping. "Good. I don't want another…" She ran off, blushing as she flipped back the covers. "Er, thanks for not molesting me in my sleep. See you at breakfast!" she finished, half-hysterically, before disappearing through the curtains.

Tom settled back into bed, arms behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling.

Yes, she was definitely a Dumbledore. The whole lot were mad.

He scoffed and pulled the blankets higher to ward off the chill. He would save the deep thoughts about this new problem for later, after he'd had some coffee in his stomach. He didn't move to take the spot she'd slept in, though his hand curled over the residual warmth left in the mattress.

"I never thought you were one for chaos and mayhem," Hermione said as Cygnus Black sat down beside her.

"It is entirely too early for introspection," Cygnus said with a faked yawn. She glowered. Eyeing the way she was stabbing her bangers—not to mention the maniacal gleam in her eyes—he coughed nervously. "Are you well? Perhaps you should see Madam Cur—"

"I will destroy you," she declared. "Your children's children's children will still be feeling the backlash after I'm through with you, you utter _bastard_."

Cygnus took a sip of his water, wondering how skilled Albus Dumbledore's heir was in animate to inanimate Transfiguration. Or maybe he'd get lucky and she'd turn him into a goldfish.

Though he didn't know why he thought that was _lucky_. At least he'd be able to communicate his distress to the merpeople in the lake as he wouldn't be able to as a gaudy trinket left in the Slytherin common room for ages and ages, only the house-elves to dust him.

Did the merpeople understand distress-filled air bubbles? It would be all in the gills, he decided.

"My great-grandchildren, Hermione?" he said coolly, ignoring the image of a goldfish evading a hungry merperson. _Would that count as cannibalism?_ "How unnecessary cruel of you. Here I thought you were a Dumbledore."

"Oh, I can easily suspend my last name for a few seconds," she snarled. "I do not take kindly to being used without my knowledge, Cygnus. Ironically enough, it was _Riddle_ who pointed out how _useful_ I am to you."

"Meaningful chats with your boyfriend, then?" He sneered. "Did you at least remove your outer robes this time? Or do you get off on—"

"Why don't you tell me what you get off on, Black. After a Muggleborn is murdered, or during the act? Or is that just your father?" Breakfast forgotten, her cheeks flushed as if a fire were lit under her skin, she stood abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor loudly.

It was lucky there weren't many Slytherins at the table, and none close, or else he would never hear the end of this from Abraxas. The Ravenclaws at the table over, however, weren't the least bit circumspect about their eavesdropping.

"Happy Halloween," she finished, the well-wish as much as a curse as an actual one. She swept away from the table, and he heard Tom greeting her as if from a long way away as he returned his focus on his meal.

He glanced up as Tom sat down beside him, not even leaving Hermione's space open as he was wont to do when she wasn't there at mealtime. His smirk said it all. The game was up, for now.

Cygnus got up from the table, absolutely disgusted with himself, with Hermione, with Tom. With them all.

Hermione knew, as all time travellers knew and understood, that the laws of time travel were Indisputable, capital I and everything. They could not be broken, no matter the force or will set against them.

And the number one rule of time travel was that if a time traveller knew a fact about the future, that fact was impervious to all change.

Even if Hermione had wanted to change the past—maybe killing Greyback before he could infect Remus—she could not. She didn't know how exactly she would be unable to do so, but all the evidence pointed to a very bloody and very excruciating end for her if she so tried, and she didn't particularly want to put it to the test. Having seen Remus firsthand transform in her third year, it was indisputable fact to her, and nothing she did could change that.

However, anything _unknown_ by the traveller could have happened any which way, and so the time traveller could perform it any which way and that is the way it would have happened. That was why her third year adventure with Harry had turned out so well for everybody—except Snape, of course, who had never gotten his Order of Merlin First Class, she recalled.

Those two rules, the most important, were all very clear in Hermione's head, which was why she hesitated outside Dumbledore's office door.

He did not know these facts. He did not know that Hermione had fought for the side of Light, that she was the best friend of the wizard who had defeated Lord Voldemort. Hell, he didn't even _know_ of a Lord Voldemort. The Wizarding world was, for now, concerned with Grindewald, whom Hermione knew as indisputable fact would be defeated by Dumbledore.

But he did not know these things, which was, again, why she paused outside his door.

He only knew the indisputable facts that had appeared to him. Like her being the apparent willing bride of Tom Riddle, who he had always suspected of being the instigator of Moaning Mrytle's death. In his eyes, she was a Slytherin—a House he was biased against—and always at young Tom Riddle's left hand. The side closest to his heart.

Now that thought _really_ gave Hermione pause, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth for a moment before she remembered that that was not why she was there—and certainly not something that she wanted to think about. Ever. She was there because she needed to reassure Dumbledore not to act against her in any way, for she knew he had to be suspicious of her motives after what he learned. She was there to calm any suspicions he had, and to reassure him that she was not, in fact, a willing _anything_ to Tom Riddle, much less his wife.

It had been more than a month since she had cried at the edge of the lake, then found herself transported to this era, almost a realm unto itself, for how Riddle had kinged himself. And the Founders Book was still blank, as empty as her hopes of returning to her own time. She no longer had any hope that she would come out of this predicament unscathed, much less alive.

As dividing emotions crashed over her, almost knocking her off her feet with their strength, she knew she couldn't give up that last hope. That she could not, would not, lose her will to survive.

It was decidedly Slytherin thinking, and she raised her hand to knock. No matter what lies she had to tell, what platitudes she had to give, she would not allow her will to live diminish. She could, she _would_ , come out of this, and even if she was never able to go back to her home, she would survive nonetheless.

She had to.

"Hermione." Dumbledore smiled as he opened the door wider for her to enter. "I was just thinking about you."

"Nothing negative I hope, Professor," she said back, smiling fondly at him as she passed him into his office. Despite how much she loved Professor McGonagall, she had found Professor Dumbledore's teaching methods exemplary. She had no doubt that he was perhaps her favourite teacher, and for that she _could_ be thankful for coming to the past.

"No, dear," he said, surprising her. She searched his eyes, and was unexpectedly disquieted when she saw nothing but sincerity, though she knew she should have been rejoicing. She sat down in her customary seat in front of his desk.

His smile was congenial as he sat behind his desk, hands folded on his desk in serenity. She pushed her suspicion for his sincerity aside, sure that her old Headmaster and now adopted kin had no sinister plans for her. Though she wasn't dumb enough to believe he had _no_ plans for her.

"Is there a reason you have come to me? Shouldn't you be celebrating with your friends? I have it, on good authority, I might add, that the Slytherins routinely throw a little party after the feast."

She mentally winced at the mention of the Slytherin Halloween party. Just a time-honoured excuse to steal liquor from their rich parents and pass out starkers. Hermione shifted in her chair, nose wrinkling as her carefully rehearsed words poured from her mouth. "The matter of which we last spoke, of my"—she cleared her throat—"marriage. I've come to explain myself to you, as you deserve an explanation."

He lifted a frail hand, stroking his beard as he appeared deep in thought. "I see, Miss Dumbledore. And why have you left your explanation so long? Seeing as it has been more than a day since I've revealed my knowledge of your marriage, I did not expect to receive such an explanation from you."

Hermione licked her lips nervously.

"I needed to figure out whether you could be, er—"

"Trusted?" Dumbledore finished when her pause had lengthened into minutes. She coughed, embarrassed, but relieved that the word had been taken out of her mouth. He smiled.

"Yes, sir," she said, wishing furiously that she could control the colour on her cheeks. "I wasn't sure what I could safely tell you. I mean, I know you're trustworthy, explicitly, I just wasn't sure what you would do with whatever information I revealed. I know that in this era time travel and its laws are still being developed, but in mine they are incontrovertible."

Dumbledore stopped her babble with a raised hand, a small smile playing around his lips. "Can you explain some of these laws to me, Miss Dumbledore?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. _That_ she could do without impunity, and she did, telling him all she could remember—which was quite a lot—from her third year and the one law that had held her hand so much since September.

Dumbledore wasn't like Ron and Harry, who would have zoned out after the first few sentences and the tenth five-syllable word; nor was he like Cygnus and Minerva, who would have followed but been bored with a discussion not concentrated on Arithmancy or Transfiguration, their respective loves.

Indeed, the only one she could compare him to was Tom Riddle, who always sat back and just listened when she unexpectedly found herself discussing magical theory with him. It had happened more than occasionally since the day they were forced into each other's company by Madam Curfin and her magical cast. She didn't quite know what to think about it, but she was amazed at how he would just listen to her, occasionally asking questions, but generally just letting her explain her theories or expound on a thesis without interruption. It was an odd comfort she found herself liking. She was sad to say she would miss it.

Forcing her thoughts to a screeching halt, she waited as Dumbledore took a moment to comprehend the abstract theory of time travel—she wasn't stupid enough to give him the whole deal—before leading into the real reason why she was there in the first place.

"Riddle—he had the Founders Book and did almost everything that I did to try and make it reveal whatever its hiding. Most importantly, he donated his blood, which, unexpectedly—"

"—bound you to him," finished Albus Dumbledore, intellectual curiosity replaced by the gravity of the situation. She was glad he grasped the importance immediately. "It is not surprising. However, I do admit that I had hoped the Book's abilities would trouble you, trouble _us_ , no longer after it was taken."

He held up his hand again when she gasped. "I do not mean to upset you, my child. I only wished to admit, if a little shamefully, that I wanted to learn more about you and the future." He smiled a little airily. "A curiosity such as yourself is a terrible temptation to an old wizard like myself."

She looked at him doubtfully, having heard that self-deprecating tone of his too often in her past to know that what usually followed—on her part—was a life-or-death adventure. She wasn't too keen on the idea, not when she was housed in the same dorm as _Lord Voldemort_. He was the ultimate life-or-death adventure by himself, without battling dragons or solving logic puzzles.

"I admit that I can see the attraction," she said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. Dumbledore looked even more amused. "But there are terrible consequences for those who meddle with time. And… even as lonely as I am here, I'm unwilling to divulge any information that would give you the ability to change events. The past, _my_ past, was terrible and filled with death and destruction, but Light won out in the end, as it usually does. I just wish I had gotten to enjoy it more before I was brought here."

It might not have won entirely for her personally—things had not shifted into place like she'd thought it would after Voldemort was defeated. But, though things might not have automatically gone to rainbows and butterflies, no longer was her best friend being hunted down by a psychopath. No longer had Bellatrix Lestrange walked the earth, destruction in her wake. No longer…

Dumbledore watched her mental tangent with shrewd eyes, thoughts rapidly forming and clicking into place as sorrow, anger and love played out on his adopted niece's face. He fingered the end of his beard, several conjectures forming in his mind, not least of which the reason that brought her here.

Finally, after remembering that now was not the time to think about the past when she was in the room with a skilled Legilimens, she dropped the morbid memories for the new present. She made a mental note to check out books on Occlumency before she went back to the dungeons.

"I never knew Tom Riddle had a wife," she said eventually, the silence of the office, seeming as if it was just waiting for her, guiding her to speak. "I don't know much about his childhood or school years except what you told me." _Well, told Harry, but that was just semantics._ "You collected certain memories, your own and others, so we could try to understand him."

His blue eyes narrowed. "I conclude he was a threat of some sort, from the way you speak."

No answer was enough of one.

Fawkes' trill broke the tension in the room, and Dumbledore glanced at the clock above the lit fireplace, a small, sad smile crossing his lips. "Ah, it seems the rest of our conversation will have to wait for another day. I have a very important meeting to attend." Suddenly, he gave her a sharp look, frowning. His question was clear on his face and Hermione was struck with the absolute knowledge that whatever meeting he had, it had to do with Grindewald.

She pursed her lips to his unspoken question, and he slightly relaxed in his chair, now knowing she would keep her word not to reveal specifics.

"Is there anything you need to ask before you leave?"

She almost jumped, but realized what he meant in time. Madam Amber and her cryptic warning passed through her mind.

"I was wondering whether I could get a special dispensation to leave grounds tomorrow," Hermione said, quickly coming to a decision. "I have a… lead, of sorts, that might pan out into something useful." Dear Gods, she was sounding like one of those cop shows her father was addicted to.

Dumbledore stood, smiling at her as he ushered her to the door. "Granted. Just make sure to take the necessary precautions. The war might not have reached Britain as of yet, but one can never be too careful. I'm sure the Ministry will issue a portkey back to Hogsmeade if I ask."

She smiled, though she wasn't sure she would take him up on the offer. A portkey from the Ministry might mean being tracked, and she wasn't willing to risk it. "Thank you, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, my dear."

Albus watched as she made her way down the corridor and back to her dungeons. He hadn't been lying when he had first told her that it would be in her best interests to make a life in this era, her first morning of classes. He was glad to see she had accepted that fact, though he hoped her spirits would not stay as dampened as they appeared to be.

And Tom… Well, if what he'd seen from his brief look into her mind was true, would need some watching. It would be useful to have more insight into the enigma that he represented, along with his unwilling bride. He went back into his office when she turned the corner, a slight bounce in his step.

Hermione, however, was just grateful she had gotten away before he mentioned anything about Riddle stealing the book and her feelings on the matter. She didn't know how she would have responded, the anger all mixed up with something primal, deeper, than mere mortal reactions—due, she knew, to the binding ritual. Then she remembered that she had forgotten to mention her transportation to Riddle's bed.

She blushed. Well, maybe it wasn't imperative that Dumbledore know _everything_.

With a new set of books under her arm, she found the Slytherin common room full of half-dressed and more than drunk seventh years. It was enough to make her wish she'd died in the Battle of Hogwarts, if it meant she never had to witness whatever _that_ pale thing was that Abraxas Malfoy was showing off so proudly, albeit drunkenly.

She weaved through the melee, coming to grips that Slytherins really did multiply when she wasn't looking, heading determinedly toward the girls' dormitory before she could be dragged into the bedlam. Eris would have a lot of fun in this chaos.

Riddle gave her an odd look as she passed, which she returned, with interest, since he was half-dressed with only an inadequate tie covering his chest. A perfectly _ironed_ tie, mind.

Steady on. Almost there. A nice warm bed, without any hint of Dark Lords or almost blindingly white Malfoys. Just think of the _books_.

She groaned when she heard Abraxas's shout. "Melt your cold heart and join the play, dear Hermione!"

"The debauchery, you mean," she corrected absently, though not nearly loud enough for anybody to hear over… Who in Merlin's right mind thought that the banshee equivalent of the Weird Sisters was good party music?

Seeing Cygnus raise his glass in a mocking salute to her from the corner where he was curled up with one of Ambresia's friends, Hermione found anger quickened her pace until she was finally in the quiet of her dormitory, then finally sliding into her bed with warm woolen socks pulled up to her knees. After a millisecond of thought, she charmed her closed curtains so nobody could get in _or_ out. She didn't want to take the chance that she was actually sleepwalking right into _his_ bed.

A blush spreading across her cheeks, she started resolutely on her book on Occlumency, resolved to put the whole thing behind her.

It would never happen a second time.

"Oh, this is just _cruel_."


	15. Act Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or its characters and I do not make money off this fan work.

"Coming into knowledge and truth does not make your path easier."

—Phyllis Schlemmer

* * *

Her socks were wet. She looked down instinctively, though the shadows were too dark for her to see beyond her knees. Sighing, she bent down and pulled them off, grimacing as she put the sodden wool over her shoulder like a dishtowel so she wouldn't have to leave them behind and lose them. That left her feet in the ice of the dewy grass.

Blocking out the goosepimples rising on her skin, she made her way out of the meadow where she had wakened. The stars were almost as bright as sunlight, making it easy for her to try and find a path out. She didn't want to tread through the brush if there was a path. Thankfully, she found one, though it looked rarely used as only the trampled and flat grass gave it away.

She felt a little like a storybook character, walking barefoot and damp through the still forest. It felt nothing like Little Red Riding Hood's forest, where the wolf watched her every step, nor like her dream-forest from so long ago that left her so dreadfully scarred. It was nothing like the Forbidden Forest. Small white flowers speckled the trail, frail in her eyes but strong under the heavy air and dew. Everything felt paused, as if in any moment the forest would come alive again, the wind would dance through the trees, and branches would begin their swaying symphony in the night. Her earlier aggravation had been paused along with the forest. So still, so quiet, so peaceful. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safer.

For the first time in a long while, in the peace of the forest and her mind, she found herself thinking about Harry, Ron, and all that she had left behind. It seemed no better place to do it, since the real world had become so fraught with emotional—and physical—peril.

Ron. She had believed at Bill and Fleur's wedding that their relationship was finally— _finally_ —blossoming. She had wanted him for so many years, and she had known it was only a matter of time until he matured enough for them to explore a relationship together. She had waited for so long for him to finally _see_ her, and as they danced together beneath the pavilion she had thought he was on the way to fulfilling her dreams.

But he wasn't, not really. He had begrudged her everything over the years, never believing the best about her, only the worst. Harry's Firebolt from Sirius, her date with Viktor Krum, her _friendship_ with Viktor, the Slug Club, everything. He wouldn't become the man she thought he would be, because just when they needed them the most, he left.

He left _her_.

And after how loyal she'd been to Harry. Never leaving his side, protecting him, dealing with his moods and outbursts. She had never _ever_ thought once about leaving him. Then he'd gone and accepted Ron back without question, without remark.

She had known Harry still blamed her for breaking his wand. No matter how many times she apologized, he still blamed her, becoming surly and snappish every time she brought up Horcruxes, Dumbledore, _anything_. She didn't know how many times she had cried herself to sleep over it, muffling it into her pillow so Harry wouldn't hear as he stood his shift outside the tent entrance.

It made her sick to think back on it. She'd seen how they went away together after Ron came slinking back, so proud of himself for saving Harry from drowning. She wasn't naïve. She'd seen them sneaking away from the _shrew_ , laughing and joking about her behind her back. She'd been so loyal to them, to them both, and that was how they repaid her friendship. By blaming, snickering, and hiding from her.

She tasted bitter tears at the back of her throat.

She'd been so… so _angry_ at Harry after everything was over. He'd immediately moved into the Burrow with the remaining Weasleys, not even staying to help repair the destruction of the school like many current and ex-students had, including herself. He said he had wanted to get away from all of the bad memories, to think on what had happened, to wait until he didn't see death everywhere before coming back. And the look he had given her, like he couldn't bear to see her, like _she_ was one of those memories he wanted to forget, struck right through her heart.

Then Ron had thought they'd strike up their relationship when it had never begun in the first place. Oh, how she had hated him at that moment, with his cheeks a flaming red and his feet shuffling nervously. He had thought they would all fall into place after Voldemort was dead, thought while Ginny got her wish of having Harry, Hermione would fall into his open arms gladly. And, yes, she had once thought that would happen when Voldemort was dead, too. But that was in sixth year, that was at Bill and Fleur's wedding, that was the second before he'd left the tent that rainy night and hadn't returned for weeks.

That was before.

And, honestly, how long would it have taken before they blew up at each other and he ran into the open arms of Lavender Brown and afterward they decided it would be better for everyone—especially innocent bystanders—if they just remained friends? Hermione wagered a week.

She kept on the trail, thoughtful now that her brief anger and bitterness had passed. They hadn't been good enough for her friendship, she realized distantly, as if it were an iceberg miles away from her spot in the sea. Likewise, she hadn't been perfect either. Without Quirrell trying to get the Philosopher's Stone and releasing that troll in the school, she reckoned nothing would have brought them together. Ron and Harry would have still talked about her behind her back—well, not Harry, but he wouldn't have stopped Ron—and she still would have nagged and showed off. But she could take pride in their friendship, the way they had taken away her homesickness and loneliness that first year and all the years afterward. Yes, she _could_ take pride in what they had had together, and feel a little melancholy by how they had fallen apart afterward. She didn't know if they could repair their friendship—or even if they noticed it _needed_ repairing—but she would try. She wouldn't give up what had been such a large part of her life, what had made her _Hermione_ for so long. Not easily, at least, like she had been prepared to do before being brought to the 1940's.

Peace and beauty and soft stillness were her companions as she grew up, just a little.

She didn't know how far she walked. The forest seemed timeless. Moonlight dappled the path and forest beside the trail, patches of white-golden light leading her way to civilization and a wand—hopefully. No matter how soft the grass or how idyllic the scenery, her feet were wet and cold, quickly becoming frozen, and she needed to get back to Hogwarts. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, stiff fingers under her armpits as she tried to conserve what little body heat she had. The loudest sound in the forest was the sound of her teeth chattering.

She could not stop walking. The peace was nice, was perfect, but she'd become so used to emotions like panic, anger and misery that she didn't know how to handle this sort of stillness of emotions. Didn't know if she deserved to feel it. It was like suddenly falling into arctic cold water. She felt in stasis, knowing she would come out of the shock of hitting the cold water, waiting expectantly to feel the sharp pain and the freeze, but never feeling it.

A gust of wind blew and her hair flew into her face, a few loose curls getting stuck in her eyelashes and on her lips. She reached to wipe them away and when she did, heard music coming out of the forest. She shivered at the beautiful sound echoing through the trees and wished she had her wand, just in case.

She hadn't even thought about becoming alarmed by the serenity until it was broken.

But where there was music, there were people. Civilization. Her feet sped up, ice, ice, every step. She could see her hurried breath, could imagine the frostbite setting in. How long had she been out there? When would hypothermia set in? Panic, Hermione's faithful companion, came rushing back from its cigarette break.

She came upon the clearing suddenly, as if blasted head-first from a cannon. It was small, and just as idyllic as the forest path—even more so with the small cottage that was set by the trees. She didn't care how it looked; she saw nothing but the flickering fire she glimpsed through the window, the door opening at her approach, beckoning her inside.

But once she had entered, she stood on the threshold nervously, biting her lip as she tried to figure a polite way to throw herself into the warmth of the stranger's house.

The music—a string instrument, perhaps, or else a very expensive gramophone—stopped after a few moments of her standing at the door. She strained her ears for any noises, trying to pinpoint which room off the long hallway she'd stepped into was occupied.

"Are you going to keep dripping on the rug, girl, or come in and warm a spell?" called a deep man's voice from the open door to the left. Startled, she flushed and hurried forward to the only open door, not questioning the man's authoritative tone.

The room she entered was small and cozy, if a bit stuffy from the out of place formal seating. Bookshelves lined the wall beside the fireplace, and she was happy to see one of them was a little crooked. It gave character to the room, making it seem a place of comfort rather than formality like she'd first thought.

The thing that made her happiest, however, was the lit fireplace.

Wet and shivering, she rushed toward it, sparing a glance to the dark man sitting in the wingback chair beside the fireplace as she fell onto her knees before the hot flames. Desperate for heat, she scooted as close to the fireplace as she could manage without lighting herself on fire. Though it would warm her considerably, she wasn't _that_ desperate.

With only a scant warning, she felt a thick wool blanket being put on her back as fingers wrapped around her shoulders. "No, dear, mustn't get you too warm too fast, else you'll be having a heart attack in my front parlour and no one would be wanting that."

The man had pushed one of the settees closer to the wingback and the fireplace and she let him settle her into it, draping another thick blanket around her front. He placed a pillow behind her, reminding her of the persnickety Madam Pomfrey in his coddling.

"Th-thank you-u, sir," she chattered up at him. He smiled, showing crooked and yellowing teeth. The dentist's daughter inside her flinched, but the witch in her thought he looked very Dumbledorian, with a twinkle in his odd amber eyes.

"Least I could do," he said. He took her socks off her shoulders and magicked them to hang in front of the fireplace to dry before sitting back in the wing-backed chair. "If I had known you were coming today, I would have met you before you had to walk all that way in that dreadful cold. Took me three days before I found this place waiting for me. Good thing they left my wand here, else I would've had a time of it."

She was still shivering and chattering, her body temperature rising slowly, but she kept trying to get her sluggish mind to work out what exactly was wrong with his words. Something was definitely wrong about them. This entire experience was surreal, and she was only noticing it now.

Apparently the stranger saw the distress on her face, for he kindly explained. "Astral plane, dear girl. Or 'alternate reality', if you're not one for theology. I've heard some Muggles don't believe in it at all anymore, if you can believe that."

 _Astral plane_.

Hermione gulped.

"Am I—?"

"Dead? Oh no. Just visiting. I've been expecting you for a while now; a few months, if my inner clock has it right." He took a gold watch out of his robe pocket and checked it. "Ten 'til two in your time."

Massaging warmth into her toes while keeping her body under the blanket, she stared at him in utter confusion. This had to be some sort of wild dream. Maybe Ambresia had slipped something into her dinner as payback for the other night. A potion of some sort that, once she fell asleep, trapped her in a strange dream world of her imagining along with a dark-haired Dumbledore.

It just wasn't possible to be _visiting_ Wizard heaven.

"I see you don't believe me," the stranger said, lips quirking. It reminded her of Snape for some reason, even though he himself had never looked at her with such approval. "I've read that Muggleborns suspend their use of logic when they enter the Wizarding world. Magic, they think, can do nothing short of everything. It is nice to see they were wrong. You are in fact right, Miss Dumbledore. You could not be transported to one of the planes without dying yourself.

However, someone—or something—higher than mortals brought you here."

Gaping was unattractive, she scolded herself, but she couldn't find it in her to close her open mouth. She tucked her chin behind her knees instead, closing her eyes and groaning into the blanket. This was exactly the _opposite_ of what she needed, with Tom Riddle and time-travel and unorthodox and unwanted meetings with Riddle's bed. Now she had to add astral planes and someone or some _things_ higher than mortals kidnapping her?

 _May you live in interesting times._

Now she knew why that was a curse.

The stranger seemed to sense she needed a moment to get herself together, and she was thankful for his perceptiveness when she lifted her head a few minutes later. She had a thousand questions and one, but only one that she needed answered before she could comfortably ask the rest.

"May I ask your name, sir, since you know mine?"

"My dear girl, you wear the crest of my House every school day," he answered, sounding like an indulgent grandfather.

Hermione almost fell off the couch.

" _Ohmygod,"_ she breathed out shakily.

She rubbed her eyes. Some of the chill had been taken from them, but it still helped shock her out of her, well, _shock_. How could she not be when the charming and fatherly stranger admitted that he was Salazar Slytherin, one in the same.

She was going crazy. She knew it. The stress had finally gotten to her.

"And, uh," she gulped, not quite looking at him, " what am I doing here? You said something brought me here."

Salazar Slytherin nodded. She felt it was necessary to repeat that to herself. "I did. The same being brought me here to greet you, in fact." He waited until she was squirming with expectation, a silence that grated on every nerve and muscle and almost had her leaning out of her blankets and off the settee to get closer to whatever he would say.

"Fate."

Not exactly what she had been expecting, though she didn't know what she had expected in the first place. It took a moment for what he said to finally sink in her stubborn psyche.

 _Oh._

 _**Oh.** _

_Okay, this was obviously hell._

 _Honestly, though!_ She had been blaming Fate for kicking her down from the pinnacle of happiness— _well, maybe not the_ pinnacle _, it was a figure of speech, after all, and nobody was_ truly _happy after the war ended_ —by bringing that Book into her life. Now she found out that Fate wanted to mess with her some more, even go so far as to bring her to the _astral-bloody-plane_ to ruin her life.

Just fucking perfect. Didn't she have enough problems on her plate without adding omniscient— _literally,_ _and not the Dumbledorian sort_ —beings that wanted to interrupt her life into the mix.

Oddly, she didn't doubt that he wasn't speaking anything but the truth. Maybe it was a quality only Slytherin had, because she knew with any other person she would have been protesting from the moment the words left his mouth, not considering them seriously as she was now. _He would have been a great politician,_ she thought wryly, _if not for the 'exterminating Muggles and Muggleborns' part._

 _Even then, too, considering the prejudice against them was still rampant even after Voldemort was dead._

She scrubbed at her face again. It seemed she had been doing that a lot lately, and would probably keep up with the habit with the way events were unfolding around her. It was frustrating, being the plaything of every bloody nuisance that came along.

She felt the cold dregs of shock wearing off, most of it already gone from her frustrated, directionless anger. Warmth wormed itself into her, the fire incinerating the last of the cold from outside and her mind-numbing shock. She felt her brain begin to engage in this new obstacle in a way that she hadn't been engaged since the war fully started with Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort. Tom Riddle. Her husband.

"Fate _married_ me!" She felt the iron-control she'd bound herself with slip a few notches. "To Voldemort!"

She jumped up and started pacing, forgetting for Slytherin for the moment. Oh, this was rich. Fate decided to play her right into the hands of the Dark Lord, then _married_ her to the bastard!

"And how do you know that was Fate's doing, dear?"

Almost tripping mid-stride, she turned to the dead wizard, gaping.

" _Of course_ it was Fate." _And that sounded way too sappy considering how angry she was._ "That damn Book"—she gasped anew and raised a pointing finger—" _your_ damn Book!"

He didn't even have the shame to deny it, his lips twisted into a smirk. "Partially, Miss Dumbledore. You forget, however, that fate and free will walk hand in hand. There was no one forcing you to donate your blood to our book, nor my blood-heir. You both chose to of your own free will, though I had hoped neither of you would prove as inane as my compatriots and I were."

His smile was wry as she quietly sat back down, stunned. "You are willing to listen, now?" Mute, she nodded.

"As well it should be." He settled back in his chair, looking nothing so much as a dragon about to show off his pile of glittering treasure. "Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and I were of Norman descent—indeed, Hogwarts was built during the Norman conquest of England under a progenitor of Charlemagne.

It was our most difficult time together as friends, especially as we were partners in the running and upkeep of a slowly flourishing school. We felt… helpless, unable to do nothing for our chosen country, under siege by our homeland. We could do nothing but watch and hide from an increasingly magic-hostile world on top of a war."

He paused in the beginning of his entrancing tale, and a glass of deep amber drink materialized in his hand. He took a sip, making a small noise of relish. She found herself waiting for him to continue with only a faint stirring of impatience, most unlike herself. When he opened his eyes, there was dark amusement.

"And powerful individuals, as you well should know, do not like being helpless.

Since there were already stirrings for the magical world to retreat fully behind Disillusionment Charms and Muggle-repelling wards, my friends and I could not openly fight for the protection of our people. But what was there for us to do, when our magic and names could not help?

Rowena was the one to come up with the idea. She wore her diadem to bed one night, falling into a sleep of knowledge and choices and the diadem showed her the way to bind a sliver of Fate to us, a way for us to exert control on the happenings in our country. To put it simply, it worked." He smiled wryly. "A little unfairly to our new home, but the war was over and the non-magical people were settling down, as much as they could, anyway."

She sat still, wondering how on earth no one had connected their verified disappearance from the day-to-day happenings of Hogwarts with the settling down of England. She hadn't even connected it, and she had been the one to find their disappearances.

When she opened her mouth to ask—what, she did not know—he gave her a quick look, clear in its meaning. She settled back down in her seat, mind whirring with all this new information. He didn't tell her how they had bound Fate, as was appropriate. That had had to be a serious piece of magic to bind Fate to their power. But they had been the strongest wizards and witches in the world. It wouldn't have been beyond their means at all.

"But we had another problem on our hands: a piece of Fate that, as the outcome explained, was not entirely under our control, seeing as our kinsmen were not expunged from our new country. We had a verified Fate maker in our hands and knew not what to do with such a powerful tool, a weapon that could destroy us as well as our enemies." He shook his head, lips pursed. She had a feeling that he had been one of the ones vying for the decimation of any political or magical enemies. _Figures._

"It was Helga who eventually understood, that Fate could only work with free will and would never be controlled by mortal men, as it was like a dragon in its wildness, whatever good or ill it made. We decided that we would leave our piece of Fate alone. We did not know whether we had made a mistake with it, and, as our true impact hit us, we had to come to quiet acceptance of the guilt of a kind when you do something terribly wrong, but do not know what went wrong."

"Other people's fates aren't meant to be muddled with," Hermione summed up quietly. By then, the fire had dimmed and cast flickering, dancing shadows over their faces. Slytherin looked slightly malevolent, dark eyes half-lidded and watching her like a lazy predator, waiting for his chance to strike.

Hermione shivered as his tale and its implications came back to her. Messing with the set progression of time and space like that—she shuddered anew—they were either mad or brilliant, or even a little of both, with how powerful they were magically.

"Yes." Slytherin took another sip of drink. "In the end, we paid for that bit of interference, of binding a creature, _the_ ultimate creature, of free will.

Rowena was the first. Since the diadem was the tool that helped her with the intricacies of binding it to us, we linked Fate to it at first. Later, she bid us to look for another home for it since it was preventing the Old Magic imbued within her ancestral weapon to work properly." He inclined his head. "We put it into a book instead, a book full of our separate magic to hold it to the binding. We kept the book empty, however, so none of our enemies would suspect it was anything more than magic we could melt down and absorb back into us when we most needed it.

Rowena was the first," he repeated. His entrancing voice changed, though it took her a second to notice in surprise. Harder, with an edge of long-kept rage and resentment. "Illness struck her down, a common cold one breakfast, then, the next day, paralyzed and choking for every breath. No Healing spell could trace the illness, no Dark Arts could expand her slowly compressing chest. She called for her daughter one last time, not caring that she had stolen the diadem in a pique of rebellion, sending the Baron after him." He made a moue of distaste. "Eyes like a shark, that wizard. But Rowena was fond of him, for he was fond of her dear Liza, so she sent him after her daughter. She was dying, but she had time to say goodbye to her magical-heir and only child."

His voice turned cold. "We watched through a magic window that Godric surreptitiously attached to the Baron. We did not want to chance the Baron eloping with Liza and not performing the duty he was sent for. Rowena— We watched as, after being rejected so strongly, he slew her with a stiletto through the heart. And after a kiss to her brow, he killed himself. All along, we watched, and when Helga cried out in distress from beside our friend's bed, we found Rowena had joined her daughter; no longer able to pump air to her lungs after watching the man she had sent as messenger murder her only child."

He looked up at her, where before he had been staring at a point somewhere above her shoulder and into the past. His eyes were as black as a snake's, glittering with the amusement a predator has for its prey. "Revenge, you see. Anyone who touched that blasted diadem—even secondhand, as the Baron had—died. It was as if Fate was speaking to us in our minds at that moment, when it seemed the words just fell into our heads as if they had been there all along. By believing we could control and wield fate like a sword, we would be destroyed.

I was next, then Godric. Our humiliations and deaths took years. Helga's only a fortnight; she had been reluctant from the first, understanding more about the nature of the world than we. A gentle death, I learned."

He paused to take another drink and she sat back on the settee, wondering if the hard knot in her chest was sorrow or thirst to know what made Slytherin's mouth thin in distaste. Towards himself or his friends or Fate, she knew not. Maybe all three. She wondered if it was wrong to want to know about it, as distant as she was from the entire instance. It felt like the time she'd walked in on Harry and Ginny snogging in the Astronomy Tower when she went up for patrol duty. Like she'd stepped right into a puddle of intimacy and wet her jeans to the shin.

"So." She felt the need to get back on point and put an end to the uncomfortable silence. "Does this murderous streak extend to the book?"

Slytherin's lips twitched, the now empty glass disappearing from his hands. She wondered whether it was magic or just the way the astral plane worked.

"To my knowledge, before I was summoned here, of course, the last thing Godric Gryffindor accomplished was the destruction of the book and breaking of the binding that held it to our sacrificed magic. Obviously, it didn't work like we all believed, if you're here now."

She scowled. _That_ was patently obvious. " _What_ am I doing here in the first place? Why would" —she struggled against the word— "Fate want to send me to the 1940's, to marry me to _him_? What purpose does it serve?"

Slytherin— _gods, she wished she was mad and not actually conversing with_ _ **Salazar Slytherin**_ —spread his hands out in the universal signal for peace. "I am just the storyteller, brought here, just like you, by our generous host. I know nothing of its current plan, or if the—pardon my pun—Fate that befell us will claim you or my heir. I can only watch from my new home."

"But… it doesn't explain everything." In fact, the only thing his story told her was that she could look forward to the day when she died an excruciating death for messing, however unintentionally, with Fate. It said nothing about why she was in the 1940's or married to Riddle or showing up in his bed. Nothing.

"My dear," he said, condescending amusement colouring his voice, "fate never does."

She noticed with a start that his voice had come from a distance and, looking down at herself, she found her body slowly immaterializing. Hermione looked back up at the wizard in alarm, a shout on her lips, and instead there were only dark green hangings above the bed she found herself in.

She turned her head to the side slowly, dread clogging her throat. Tom Riddle's face was preternaturally close to hers, shallow breaths hot on the side of her face as he used her as a human pillow.

"Oh, this is just _cruel_."

She scowled at the velvet curtains. Her socks were back on her feet and still warm from the fire they had hung above.

Tom woke up slowly, scissoring his legs to get them loose of the twisted blankets. He rolled over when they were free, sleep calling him back, promising his rebelling stomach a Sobering Draught as soon as he left bed. The mattress beside him was still warm.

Hermione listened to the shuffling and chatter of her dormmates as they prepared for breakfast and whatever they happened to be doing that Sunday through the hangings still closed around her bed. She hadn't been able to go back to sleep after sneaking out of Riddle's bed and dorm—and ignoring what in the dark looked like a pile of bodies spilling out of Abraxas's bed. She wasn't _even_ going to ask. Her eyes couldn't close out all the thoughts running, stumbling, tripping through her head, the new knowledge of what had brought her here and straight to Riddle branded into her mind just like the brand on her arm. He hadn't told her all of the story, she knew, but it was enough.

She had to find a way out. There was no other option.

If the book— _Fate_ , said her mind, but she wasn't ready to acknowledge it—could bring her here, it could bring her back. It was all about free will and she chose to leave. She hadn't known that the first time she tried to make it bring her back, but she knew it now. So it had to work now that she understood. Hopefully.

Maybe.

She waited until the rest of the girls had left for breakfast before getting dressed herself. Today was the day she stole back the Founder's Book.

Though, she didn't really think she could keep calling it that when it was obviously a force of _evil_.

It had a heinous record with all the deaths it had caused to the people who had bound it in the first place, along with innocent people like Liza Ravenclaw, who had not known the diadem had once held a piece of Fate itself before she'd stolen it. She didn't know how it had killed the other Founders or the other people who had been in contact with the diadem, even secondhand, like the Bloody Baron, but she didn't have to know to recognize that it wasn't going to do her any good.

 _If she was struck by lightening on a cloudless day, she was going to be_ _**pissed** _ _._

On the other hand, if a stray lightening bolt decided to come Riddle's way, she'd step aside happily. Whistling.

Her heart sped up as she thought of something that had plagued her since listening to Slytherin's tale. Maybe because she had so recently thought of him when she had repressed him from her mind for so long. _Harry._ Harry had touched the diadem. She'd seen it hanging off his arm as the Fiendfyre burned it and Voldemort's Horcrux to a crisp. Would he be the next to die, even though none of them could ever guess what else Ravenclaw's diadem had housed before the Horcrux?

But Harry _had_ died, or experienced something extremely close to it, if only for a second. He'd made the choice, the _willing_ choice, to die to end Voldemort's life. If he hadn't touched the diadem as it burned from the Fiendfyre, would he have had to make that willing sacrifice? Would he have found out it only took a simple _Avada Kedavra_?

Choices. That was what it came down to, in the end.

She desperately hoped that that had been Fate's revenge against Harry for touching the diadem. If not… If not, they would have another problem whenever she got back.

Tom watched Professor Dumbledore out of the corner of his eye while he spooned cereal into his mouth.

He didn't look particularly upset about his niece's marriage. He acted the same as ever, in fact, even though Tom knew he remained wary of him since the Ravenclaw girl was killed those years ago. Of course, he didn't know Tom was the one responsible for the girl's death, but he remained cautious of him nonetheless. A pity—things would have been so much easier for Hermione if he wasn't so openly biased against the Head Boy and, through him, his House.

Slytherins were natural conspiracy theorists, mostly due to their suspicious natures, and Tom knew how his housemates had first seen Hermione—sent by her Uncle to spy on them. Resentment had been just one of a dozen negative undercurrents directed at Hermione in the first days of school. He'd smoothed most of it out for their newest Slytherin—no one said he didn't take his Head Boy duties seriously—but now he had to face the backlash of his efforts.

The Slytherins had went lax enough in her presence to hint or tell her things about him that were supposed to be secrets. Though not even the most informed knew everything that Tom and the others were doing, it wasn't hard to guess some details when they all shared the same living spaces. Now... now Hermione had become the newest bane on his existence. Blackmailing him! Honestly.

Tom watched Dumbledore out of the corner of his eye as he finished his own breakfast and made his way out of the Great Hall. Hermione had still been asleep according to Ambresia, so he focused on the progenitor of his newest problems and worries until he was out of sight.

Tom had listened to the whispers and the public's voice from the Daily Prophet. He listened and waited, sorting through the contradictions of what he heard and what he saw as the problems of Europe grew louder and louder.

It had started out as a whisper, but soon became a cry, and would eventually become screams; hopes, then demands, then pleads. But it would only go so far if Albus Dumbledore stubbornly resisted the call from the public, including Grindewald's home country, and battle the Dark Lord Grindewald. Day by day it became clearer that the fool would hold out forever.

He presented a calm sort of hopelessness to the world. It made people believe he truly could do nothing against the other wizard. Tom, however, skilled as he was, could look past the calm façade and see it for the fear that it really was.

It seemed as if Dumbledore placed more trust that a stray bolt of lightening on a clear day would strike Grindewald down than his own magic and might. Typical Gryffindor. He would dither and hesitate, wallowing in his fear, rather than make plans to defeat the one wizard who threatened the entire world with his very presence.

 _Well,_ Tom thought, _who was_ he _to stop Gryffindor foolishness?_

Perhaps he had some great plan in motion, but Tom ultimately doubted it. If the way his eyes wandered to the windows more and more in classes—every day now—were any clue, he rather doubted he was doing anything more than wallow in his fear.

 _Let him burn, if he will not quench the flames._

Tom shook off his thoughts and instead focused on his breakfast and let Cygnus and Abraxas's sniping at each other wash over his head. He would let Hermione have her morning before he sent for her this afternoon. He had plans he had to put into motion, and he needed her distracted tonight so she wouldn't notice anything else in the dungeons. He had the perfect distraction for her. One that would push forward the plans that he had made for her before everything had gotten so complicated while also tightening the collar on a now unknown quantity.

Two in one, his favourite kind.

It was ridiculously easy to find the book. Somehow, she thought she would have to search his dormitory for clues to where it was hidden, or have to recognize and disable intricate wards surrounding it. She hadn't quite expected it to be glamoured to look like a history of the goblin rebellion and sitting in plain sight on his nightstand. Unwarded, too.

Though, she supposed, with his roommates being who they were— _lazy purebloods with no thoughts of expanding their knowledge unless it could reward them_ —it was the perfect deterrent for any snooping.

She made a copy of the book, making sure to make every detail perfect. She had time with this copy, unlike the last time she had done it to Slytherin's locket that had hung around that toad's neck. She knew that, unlike Umbridge, Riddle would be able to tell it was a copy by the smallest discrepancy.

She smiled, satisfied, as she stood up, absently pulling herself off his bed by the bedpost.

Her hand went through it.

She withdrew her hand immediately, jumping away from the bed. She stared at it. Nothing happened. Cautiously extending her wand, she poked it, and she watched, enchanted, as it went straight through and hit the wall.

An illusion.

But what for? Why would Riddle need to make an illusion of a _bedpost_ , of all inane things?

 _Because he was hiding something, obviously._

She put her hand back out, putting her hand into the not-there bedpost then sliding it down. Near the headboard, she found where the illusion ended, along with something the size of a bottle cap placed on top of the bedpost. She cupped her hand over it, carefully pulling it out.

She felt her heart rise to her throat when she saw what she had found.

The ring. Marvolo Gaunt's gaudy gold ring. On top rested a smooth black stone engraved with what she knew was the Peverell coat of arms. _The Resurrection Stone._

The question of whether it was already a Horcrux had only begun to form in her mind before she felt it. The malevolency that she'd worn around her neck for what seemed like years. She felt it reach out for her, like a snake uncurling from its sleep, smoke curling out a chimney place to touch unpolluted air—

She carefully put it back where she found it and left.


	16. Act Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer;** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

**note;** The 'Lightning Guard' is a nod to Lightning on the Wave's Sacrifices Arc. Everyone should read it. The rest— _fortunately_ , if you like it, _unfortunately_ , if you don't—is mine. And JKR's, of course.

Build the pressure up enough and it goes _sprang_.

* * *

"I thought I'd die with all the hate in my veins."

—V in V for Vendetta

* * *

Hermione hurried to the library, determined to get there before breakfast was over. Her stomach was a roiling mess anyway, with all she had learned that night and finding Riddle's Horcrux, so she was in no rush to eat.

Placing a book on Transfiguration nearby on a secluded table in case anyone snuck up on her, she opened the glamoured Founders book and began to study it.

Every page was still as blank as before, nothing had changed there. However, now that she knew it was present, she could feel the aura of powerful magic surrounding it. Taking out her wand, she focused on the spell that would allow her to see the magic, driving her will forward like an arrow.

She saw.

Her gasp of surprise was overwhelmed by the sight before her. She had never seen such intricate spells and wards. They were combined and twined until they were a sheer block of power, more intricate than even the Hogwarts wards. Thinning her eyes, she could still see the cover and spine of the book, but the sheer colours and power of the magic around it almost blotted it out. There were blue and gold cords of spells covering the cover, winding over it and disappearing into the pages. Binding spells, she saw, when she studied it in more detail. There were others—green and red and an earthy brown that made her think of planting season—ropes and ribbons of magic and wards tying and binding and protecting the book, and green ones she couldn't figure out until she saw that they were sharp-edged, as if in defense.

When Salazar Slytherin's words came back to her— _We put it into a book instead, a book full of our separate magic to hold it to the binding_ —she began searching for that, the magic they sacrificed to bind Fate to the empty book.

It was so absurdly simple, she almost laughed aloud at not noticing it before.

The emblem—the emblem that had made her pick up the book in the first place, the emblem that had caused her so much grief and trouble—was the binder. A small silver circle, complete with four fading stars in four different colors, placed at the top of the spine. About half an inch altogether, it held the combined but separate magic of four of the most powerful wizards to ever walk the earth.

She knew in that moment, as she had only known in the abstract before, why absolute power can corrupt absolutely. The magic in that small emblem was as deep and as still as the ocean floor. A terrifying magnitude, it could raze whole cities and still not be overtaxed. It could blot out the sun and the moon and cast the whole world in darkness and still not be finished. There was so much sheer _power_ that Hermione had to close her eyes and retreat from it, lest her own magic be pulled into it.

Steadying her suddenly harsh breathing, she opened her eyes with renewed determination and stretched out her will toward the emblem a second time. This time, she searched for the edges of the magic—four edges, if Slytherin hadn't been lying. She found them. She might not have if she hadn't been told that they were there. No one else would have looked for them if they had found it, overwhelmed by such power in one place.

Ravenclaw's was high and majestic, like an eagle soaring with the currents. Gryffindor was hot and fierce, a mighty fire that she instinctively thought of as cleansing, and the Dark scar on her arm from the beast twinged at the merest contact. She passed over it quickly. Hufflepuff was deep and grounding, as warm as a phoenix's wings, reminding her of new growth and regeneration. Slytherin's was iceberg cold, and she felt her fingertips turned numb from where she touched the book. It seemed somehow deeper than the others, as if he had sacrificed more magic than the other Founders.

But that could just be the characteristics of his magic, making it seem more than it really was. It seemed to Hermione to be an excellent defense system. It would make wizards think they had no hope of attacking him before they even tried. Smart. _Sly._

So that part of Slytherin's story was true, then. The Founders really had donated a portion of their magic to keep Fate bound to the book. She had thought it might be true, since it was so outlandish and she could check the book easily, but it was always better to make sure than rely on other people. Look what happened when the Order ran around with its head cut off when Dumbledore died. She'd witnessed them scrambling to catch up and didn't want to experience that for herself, thank you.

She sighed and released the spell to see the magic. She hadn't felt Fate in the book, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. It only meant that it wasn't magic— _which it wasn't._ Fate was something entirely different and foreign than magic, at least the kind Hermione was used to. The spell couldn't sense what wasn't magic.

So Slytherin's story was true, but that left why the book was still intact when Godric Gryffindor had supposedly destroyed it. It also left why it had brought her to the 1940's and blood-bound her to Tom Riddle. There had to be a connection; there usually were in problems, even when it didn't seem like it.

 _When in doubt, work backwards._ It was something she'd heard her mother say more than once when she'd still been home enough to spend time with her.

The book had bound her to Tom Riddle. But it hadn't stopped with a simple binding, like Bill and Fleur's wedding. It had bound them by _blood_ , which was the strongest. Why that particular binding, if it just wanted them connected?

 _Blood._ What was important about it, besides the fact that she now had his blood running through her veins and making her feel dirty?

 _Spilled blood weakens._

 _Blood wards around Number Four Privet Drive._

 _Harry's stolen blood letting him bypass the sacrifice of a mother. Adding him to its protection._

 _Lord Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin._ Her thoughts shuddered to a stop then started churning again frantically.

Tom Riddle was the heir of Slytherin. Fate was bound by Salazar Slytherin's magic. The book had blood-bound them, essentially—

Again, her thoughts shuddered and stopped, but she resolutely went forward.

The book had blood-bound them, essentially making her the heir of Slytherin, too, but not. Like an adopted cousin or something.

It was much more complicated than that, she knew, but they were the simplest words to describe it. She now had Slytherin blood running through her veins.

So, logically, going on what she had just learned, the book needed one with Founders blood to use it.

 _Which meant she could use it._

She closed her eyes in relief.

"I didn't know you were so interested in the goblin wars," Minerva said, making her presence at her right shoulder known. Hermione jumped and almost fell out of her chair turning around.

The Head Girl raised her eyebrows, her only display of shock. "More interesting than I thought, then."

Hermione managed a shaky chuckle, which sounded just a _little_ too breathless to her ears. "You just startled me, is all. I wasn't expecting anyone in here this early on a Sunday."

"You promised to walk me to my session with Professor Dumbledore," Minerva chided. "You said you would wait for me in the Great Hall."

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, Minerva!" Hermione said. She didn't have to fake the distress and embarrassment in her voice. It wasn't often that she forgot something like her promise to Minerva, and it seemed especially harsh when she knew how nervous Minerva was about her first lesson with Dumbledore in her Animagi training. _She_ might know that she'd excel and accomplish it, but Minerva didn't, and Animagus training was especially difficult to master. Not even Dumbledore was one, though he had enough skill to master it easily if he tried. Hermione was frankly confused at why he _wasn't_ one, since he knew enough to train Minerva to master it. But that wasn't what she should be concentrating on, and she hastily assured Minerva as she picked up her books from the table. "You'll be perfect. You know Uncle. He wouldn't say you had an affinity for it if you didn't."

Minerva just rolled her eyes at her assurances, though the tightness around her eyes eased a little. "I'm a McGonagall. _Of course_ I'll be perfect."

Hermione huffed as they made their way out of the library, though inside she was smiling. She was glad to get her thoughts off Fate and the Founders book for the moment and focus on the more mundane things of life. "Your ego certainly knows no bounds."

"And you, obviously, have no appreciation of the finer things in life." The future tabby sniffed disdainfully, her lips only twitching once.

"I'll have to work on that," she replied, gravely enough to satisfy Minerva, whose voice turned low in excitement as she began to tell Hermione about all the things Dumbledore already had her studying. Hermione knew them all, since she'd helped Minerva take notes on all the books he'd told her to look through, but she listened dutifully anyway as they walked to Dumbledore's office. She knew that when she got back to her time that she would at least have the theory down pat, so Professor McGonagall wouldn't have to wait to start the practical lessons.

It seemed odd, thinking about Minerva and Professor McGonagall as two separate people, but that's what they _were_ , in a way. Minerva was the cheeky Head Girl who thumped Hermione when she began ranting about the injustice to witches compared to wizards for too long. Professor McGonagall was the one who would sigh a long-suffering sigh as she opened the door to a first year Hermione with too many questions. Minerva was the girl who stuck beside her unquestionably even though her own House didn't like her fraternizing with a Slytherin, last names be damned. Professor McGonagall charged Death Eaters with a herd of galloping desks.

Well, that last one was both of them, she had to admit. She could definitely see Minerva doing something like that—though she thought the Head Girl was more likely to change the desks into hungry lions instead of just making them animate. She'd already started whispering about fighting in the war against Grindewald, and she had only just turned seventeen over the summer.

Hermione was shaking her head with a half-fond, half-exasperated smile on her lips when they reached Dumbledore's door. She waved Minerva off when she asked about it—the explanation would only offend that fine ego she had—and Minerva was forced to subside as the door opened and Dumbledore ushered her in for her first practical lesson.

Hermione made to say her goodbyes and good luck but Minerva grabbed her wrist and dragged her into the office after her.

"Minerva, what—"

Professor Dumbledore closed the door with a faint smile, but his eyes were nothing but mischievous. Suspicion grew in her mind.

"Now that you are both here, we may begin the lesson," he said, all business, with nothing but his eyes and the curl of his mouth to belie his serious tone.

Hermione looked to Minerva and back to her adopted uncle. When Minerva's grin only turned wicked and Dumbledore's eyebrows rose politely, she let out a huff of frustration, though the giddiness rising inside of her tried to bubble out enthusiastically.

"Fine," she said finally, in a tone of long-suffering. She thought she would have to get used to it, with these two particular Gryffindors.

As she settled in to listen as her Uncle described the meditation technique she would have to undergo to picture her animal form, she couldn't find it in herself to mind.

"Will you just _shut up_?"

For the first time in his eighteen years of life, Draco Malfoy was in complete accordance with Ronald Weasley.

That day had not started out very well, in hindsight.

It had been raining when he'd opened his eyes that morning, and not the usual steady drizzle that had been going on for a few days now. It took a thunderstorm of some power to get through all the stone and spells in the ceilings and walls to reach the dungeons and he could feel a chilling dampness in the air that hadn't been there before.

The rest of the day was spent helping Professor Flitwick in the Charms corridor, where the walls had been smashed by a giant's swinging fist. It was silent work, the diminutive professor handing out curt orders between almost clenched teeth. He had been one of the most furious with him during the school year, besides McGonagall, when he entered school after the Easter Holidays at the Dark Lord's command. He hadn't done what he'd been sent to do, which was get a hold on Dumbledore's Army, but Professor Flitwick's short stares said enough of what he thought of _that_ technicality.

Then dinner had rolled around and Draco found his quiet meal ruined by _his_ voice. And, of course, he was shouting, like the angst-ridden brooding hero that he was.

 _Gryffindors,_ he thought as he set down his book and stood.

At the doors of the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy stopped short of entering the entrance hall when he saw Harry Potter, the Boy Wonder himself, screaming at the Headmistress. Ordinary day stuff, he sighed to himself and made to go back to his meal. What had him stop and take a second look was the fact that Professor McGonagall was staring at her beloved student with cool dislike etched into every plane and wrinkle of her face.

 _Now_ _**that** _ _is an interesting development._

Though he probably could have heard the whole altercation word for word from the seventh floor, he moved forward, intent on watching the show from the front row. He was thirsty for some new information on the life outside the doldrums of Hogwarts. Besides, this could be a prime blackmail opportunity if the information was juicy enough and Potter unwilling to let it go to Skeeter.

He was nothing if not his father's son.

Draco knew the blood-thirsty vulture Skeeter might love and adore Potter _now,_ but he also knew that she would be flying in front if the winds shifted to make Potter the public's scapegoat. _The fickle opinions of the public. You had to love them._ It could happen so easily too, in these uncertain times as the world tried to rebuild itself while watching Death Eater and Voldemort-supporter trials. Just a few whispered words in the right ear, the wrong word from Boy Wonder… His popularity was _so_ fragile.

He bit back a smile. He hadn't thought about that before, but with Granger missing and nothing to do but get nasty looks from half-goblin professors… Tipping Potter's image over that precipice would be a delightful respite from boredom.

But first he had to find out what would make Potter yell at McGonagall and determine her anger at her golden Gryffindor. He moved into the shadows so he wouldn't be easily spotted and settled in to watch.

The Weasel put his arm around Potter's shoulders, pulling him out of McGonagall's face. He uttered a few quiet words to him, but his heart wasn't entirely in it. His eyes kept going from him to McGonagall's arctic visage. His face was inscrutable. Calculating.

Draco remembered with sudden clarity Dumbledore awarding Ron Weasley points for playing the best game of chess Hogwarts had ever seen. That had been when he was eleven, and he'd heard mention of him being a brilliant strategist since then. The look on his face, inexplicably, reminded him of his mother.

That particular thought was almost enough to make him go back to the Great Hall and pretend this episode had never happened. He stayed.

Whatever he said to Potter only made him angrier, because he turned back to McGonagall, fists clenched at his sides.

"I can't believe you kept this from me. I _deserved_ to know my best-bloody-friend was shagging Lord Voldemort!"

It was like searching for an asteroid and finding a new planet. With aliens and a postage system. He jumped, hastily looking over his shoulder in reflex. He almost missed the single look the Headmistress sent him before looking back at the furious Harry Potter.

"Mr. Potter, there is no reason for that kind of language. If you cannot control yourself—"

"And when were you going to tell someone that all her things are being nicked?" he continued furiously, almost spitting in McGonagall's face. "I had to find out _that_ particular fact when I got back to my room after searching for her bloody cat all morning and the Ministry files were gone!"

This seemed to break McGonagall out of her glare, because her eyes widened to the size of saucers. She stepped closer to Potter, willing to risk more of his spitting wrath. "Her Ministry records were stolen, you say?"

Harry obviously didn't sense her change of attitude, because his glare never wavered. "Crookshanks, too."

"That ragged beast?" Draco muttered low enough so only he heard, shifting in place. Good thing, too. That thing was a nightmare of fur.

But it was news to him that someone was stealing all of Granger's stuff, including Ministry files and mangy cats. He wasn't surprised that no one had told him. He wasn't in any position to help, not to mention he wasn't sure that he would even if he could. It was all just so _boring_ without anything to do or, conversely, anyone to talk with.

McGonagall stood straighter. Draco wasn't sure she knew that looking down her nose at the Boy Who Lived was condescending, but she did it well nevertheless. She could have won awards for it. "Thank you for informing me of this new turn of events, Mr. Potter. If you'll excuse me, I have other… things I must attend to."

The look on her face as she turned away suggested the blotting out of certain unlimited candy supplies for a certain secretive portrait. Draco didn't bother wishing him luck. Dumbledore wouldn't get it.

Potter's chest puffed out in renewed outrage as she disregarded him. "You really weren't going to tell me, were you? That she betrayed us?"

 _Gryffindors,_ Draco thought disgustedly, _always first with the betrayal._

"Will you just _shut up_?"

Everyone stared. Draco felt something like the entire universe sit straighter in their chairs to watch the drama unfold. Weasley shifted under the weight of their eyes, but his face held nothing but determination. "Look," he started, "I know I wasn't at my best when this whole thing came about." He nodded at Malfoy in his shadowed corner. He realized they had known all along he was there, they just hadn't cared. _Bugger._ "But you're making a fool of yourself, Harry. You know that Hermione wouldn't betray us. She hates them. Look at what she did to Edgecombe.

"Now, I don't know all the details, but, Harry, do you really believe Hermione would do that? That she'd _willingly_ marry Voldemort?" His face was shut down with something like pain. "I don't. Her morals wouldn't let her. And, even if she did"—his face paled, but he swallowed and kept going—"she'd have a good reason for it. I know it. We don't know what's happening wherever she's at, though, so it's only wasting energy to get upset over things we can't do anything about."

There was silence as all digested the fact that Ron Weasley, who had previously been so against Hermione, stuck up for her in her absence. Draco blinked as he watched a paradigm shift.

" _Upset?"_ Potter asked after a moment, incredulous and deciding to ignore his friend's other points. "I'm not _upset_. I'm bloody _furious_. She"—he pointed at McGonagall—" _knew_ about this and didn't tell us."

"It is—was—Miss Granger's prerogative, Mr. Potter," she replied stiffly. "Like Mr. Weasley said, the information would have only created scandal and Miss Granger is not present to explain herself. And before you speak of betrayal again, Mr. Potter," her tone turned as frosty as Antarctica, "remember that Hermione is a _Muggleborn_ and, above all, a young woman who has fought for what she believes in beside you since first year."

The loathing look came back to her face and rested there as she turned away again.

The quiet was broken by the castle doors breaking open, revealing the furious Interim Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt. A bolt of lightning flared behind him, making him that much more prophetic. Draco restrained the urge to look up to the heavens and roll his eyes.

"Your investigation is over, Minerva." He held up an issue of the Daily Prophet, which looked like it had passed through numerous hands before he got a hold of it. The headline was bold and big, clearly sensational. "Hermione Granger-Dumbledore has just succeeded in changing the timeline."

And with those words, they knew that everything had changed. And not for the better.

In hindsight, it hadn't been a very good day at all.

"Hermione."

She looked up from the book on small mammals Dumbledore had suggested she check out of the library. She was sure her Animagus form would be one of the smaller mammals she would find there.

Cygnus stood at the end of the couch, the repentance on his visage as awkward and out of touch as a Dementor in the tropics. Mildly shocked that Cygnus Black, of all people, could look that contrite, she sat up, pushing her book to the side.

"Do you need something, Cygnus?" She didn't want to make any assumptions based on a look, especially when she saw his mask of cool pureblood contempt slip back over it. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and tried not to look too eager.

Minerva might _try_ , but she could never understand the undercurrents in Slytherin House or why Hermione couldn't sit anywhere but beside Riddle at the Slytherin table. She was just too level-headed and unchangeable, where Slytherins shed their skins almost every day.

Cygnus could understand, though, because he was in almost the same situation she was.

 _Except he had chosen it._ She forced that insidious train of thought away. She had known that Bellatrix's father was a Death Eater, just like she'd known Abraxas was one, and she didn't hold that against him. It shouldn't be so hard to go back to viewing him as the sardonic Slytherin who mocked her incessant studying habits and the socially proficient but emotionally retarded (in regards to kindness) boy who offered her an in when it seemed she would spend her time in the 1940's alone. It shouldn't be so hard not to disdain him.

"I was hoping we could talk, actually," Cygnus said, taking a seat beside her. "I have been a fool—"

"Oh, don't say that," she rushed out, putting a hand on top of his and retracting it immediately. "I shouldn't have blown up at you. I mean, I already knew you weren't acting my friend out of the kindness of your heart. I was just angry that you were causing trouble in Slytherin and that carried over when Riddle told me what he did. Since it's obvious—"

"Hermione," Cygnus interrupted, "shut up."

She shut up.

"I want to apologize. I've been an arse worthy of Malfoy since Slughorn's party." He grimaced, and Hermione could guess how much that had cost him to say. "You didn't deserve that, especially when you could not have known why I was angry at you to begin with."

She did know, however. She bit her lip, then opened her mouth and let the words come out. "Then explain it to me."

He smiled faintly and turned to face her fully. This time, he did take her hand, but kept it loosely clasped between his own, willing to let her pull away if she chose to.

"I may have befriended you for more than your bedazzling wit"—she snorted and he smirked, before turning serious again— "but you became a true friend to me. I know now that my warning against Tom was more than a little vague." She remembered how ineffectual she had thought it would be for anyone not already knowing what a psychopath Riddle was and nodded. "I realized that only afterward, but the damage was already done and you were…"

He made a motion with his hands that Hermione would have to burn out of her brain, seeing as she never wanted to think about that night ever again.

"With him," he finished in the end, while she wondered on the merits of scraping out her eyes with a spoon. "I took out my frustration on you, and have been for quite some time. I am heartily sorry for that. Will you accept my formal apologies for speaking ill of your character and purity?"

He let go of her hand and stood. Not minding the curious stares of their housemates, he bowed, a fist pressed to his chest in some signal that only trained purebloods would know. When he rose to stand properly again, he lifted his chin until the light skin of his neck was revealed above his robes. A sign of surrender, of vulnerability.

Hermione floundered in the face of thousands of years of history and ritual being performed for _her_ , Hermione Granger the Muggleborn Sidekick. She didn't even want to get into a pureblood apologizing for making remarks on her _purity_ , of all ludicrous things. Raising her eyes to his, she considered how to respond to not make a fool of herself and make Cygnus suspicious of her origins. She thought, as the wronged party, that her corresponding acceptance of his apology would require her to give a lesser gesture, nothing extravagant like he had performed. Hopefully, reason and logic would defeat pureblood customs, just this once. Please.

She tilted her head, trying to keep it regal and not bobble-head doll, and was relieved to see Cygnus smile.

There were no great revelations in his apology, but Hermione had not expected there would be. That was not Cygnus's style. He liked to use gentle and common words to make his point, and only bring out the cutting or the grand when the situation demanded them. This was not one of those times, and Hermione desperately hoped that their odd, fragile friendship never needed those grand gestures.

She pulled Cygnus down on the couch after, and into a fierce hug. She hadn't known that it would feel this _good_ to have his friendship and dark presence on her side again.

"I'm glad," he murmured, as she let him pull away from her. "My love life has become shamefully boring without your devastating commentary."

"Don't tell me you've descended to those Ravenclaws," Hermione said, her grin wide. "They only want you for your anatomy."

"I'm sure Abraxas wouldn't be displeased to study _your_ anatomy, Madam." He waggled his brows and Hermione slapped his arm, moving away from him as she began picking up her books.

"I don't know. I think even _his_ libido should be cooled after all those rumours I heard about what happened after I went to bed. Tell me, was the peacock bit true?"

He smirked. "He was certainly strutting around enough for some truth to be in that gossip."

She shook her head in amused incredulity. Abraxas would always be the one person she would never understand. How he had ever been considered a formidable Death Eater, she would never know. He just seemed too _jovial_ for one of the Dark Lord's minions.

"Puerile prats aside, I was hoping we could go over our Arithmancy notes together to get ready for the test tomorrow." Cygnus nodded to his book bag, which was resting on a table in the corner where they usually studied together when the library was unavailable.

Having already gotten her things together, she held them to her chest as she stood. "I'm sorry, I can't," she said, truly sorry she couldn't spend more time that night with Cygnus after their reconciliation. "Professor Dumbledore gave me leave to attend some business outside Hogwarts. I don't know where the rest of the boys are—I haven't seen them since lunch, actually—but maybe they could entertain you tonight? I don't want to put Uncle out when he went through the trouble of arranging a portkey for me." She patted his shoulder sympathetically before turning for her dormitory.

"Wait." He caught her arm, dark brows drawn together. "Are you sure you can't stay? Can whatever you're doing not wait?"

She shook her head and he dropped his hand, shrugging his shoulders with a rueful smile. "Well, when can I expect you back? Without my help you'll be hopeless for the test, and I certainly wouldn't want you to fail. It'll look bad for my image."

She snorted. "You can believe that, Cygnus. I shouldn't be long; I think I'll take dinner at the Leaky if I do take longer than I should." She bit her lip, smiling hesitantly. "See you later?" Her voice was helplessly hopeful.

"Certainly."

Her smile was less hesitant this time before she bounced out of the common room and to her dormitory. The day had started on the lowest end of the spectrum possible, and, inexplicably, climbed higher by the hour. Hopefully her meeting with Madame Amber would go just as well as her unexpected conversation with Cygnus.

Cygnus sat back in his chair, watching through lowered lashes as Hermione stepped out of the girls' dormitory staircase and slipped out the common room door. His fist clenched involuntarily as Tom's order ran through his mind. Well, it was not like he could invite himself on this mysterious trip of hers unless he wanted her to be suspicious of his motives.

As she should be.

Still. He had been unbelievably stupid, that much of his apology was true. Now they were both paying the price for it.

He sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small hand mirror and murmuring a quiet word to contact the corresponding mirror in Abraxas' pocket.

"Tell him she's left Hogwarts, maybe to the vicinity of Diagon Alley. She expects she may come back late tonight. I could not keep her here."

"Does Dumbledore know?" was the equally quiet murmur back.

"He arranged a portkey for her.

"So she could be tracked if it's important."

"Yes."

A pause. "I will tell him. She's gone; he should be happy. Did you complete your mission?"

 _Mission._ He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Am I allowed to join you now or will I have to grovel?"

"I don't know," Abraxas mused. "I would never say no to you on your knees."

"This is why you have more rashes than a syphilitic dog."

"As amusing as you two _aren't_ , your presence is required, Cygnus," said another's voice, one he had once liked.

"I will be there presently." He said the word that would cut the contact and put the mirror back into his pocket. A useful device, he mused as he stood and drew his robes around him, glancing at the other oblivious and not-so oblivious Slytherins. He wondered how long it had taken Tom to come up with them, or if he had stolen the idea from some of the more useful pureblood artifacts.

No matter. It worked as it was supposed to, and that mattered nothing next to his next "mission". _Really._ Someone ought to restrict Malfoy's comic book reading.

Hermione walked out of Knockturn Alley, discouraged for the moment. She shouldn't have expected her day to go from bad (meeting Slytherin) to worse (waking up in Riddle's bed) to good (getting the book back and Animagus training) to better (Cygnus apologizing) to even better, by somehow finding a way out of the Lover's Bond early and getting Madam Amber to answer her questions.

She sighed and adjusted her scarf. All her karma points seemed to have been used up for the day.

Passing a hag and what looked like a part troll, she stepped back into Diagon Alley, intent on stopping in the Leaky Cauldron for a warm cup of tea to dispel the chill before portkeying back to Hogsmeade.

She heard the screams first. Then the building beside her began to crumble inwards, as if a giant had wrapped a fist around it and squeezed. Her muscles froze in fright before she stumbled out of the way just in time not to be crushed by a piece of the roof as it fell to the pavement.

She coughed, feeling the dust and grime covering the alley coat the inside of her mouth. It looked like she had taken a wrong turn somewhere near Knockturn and walked into a war zone. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Covered by the fog-like dust, she couldn't see anything either. _The screams—_

What was happening? Vold—

 _Grindewald._

The new monster under the bed. The first monster, to be technical. But he was keeping his campaign out of England, for fear of his old friend Dumbledore. He shouldn't be here. He _couldn't_ be here.

But the other alternative was Voldemort, and he _certainly_ wasn't strong enough for a full-force attack on Diagon Alley. This was Dumbledore's _front garden_ , for Merlin's sake!

She covered her mouth with her scarf. She had to get out of here.

 _But the screams—_

"Right, right," she said, fumbling with her wand as another soul-jarring _boom_ sounded and the intact windows of some unseen store shattered. She had only performed the Patronus messenger spell once before, and not with this sort of pressure on her. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Could she even do it now? _The screams—_

 _Those first few moments, thick blankets of silence wrapping the Great Hall, and Lord Voldemort was down, mortal again, and, oh gods, Harry was unharmed, Harry was unharmed. Voldemort was dead and Harry was_ alive _._

The misty silver otter swam once around her head before disappearing. Now Dumbledore would come.

A jet of green light shot inches past her leg. She started running. Another scream came from within the dust behind her. She slid to a stop.

She couldn't leave them, helpless people to fight. Defenseless in the face of such Dark magic. She knew the statistics of it being nonlethal magic was next to none. They weren't prepared, not like she was. It wasn't right. She could do something. She could.

Her sweaty hand gripped her wand tighter. Bellatrix's wand.

She swallowed. She couldn't do this. Could barely do this during the last battle.

Another scream, cut off abruptly.

" _Expelliarmus!"_

Friend or foe, she didn't know, but a wand soared toward her and dropped to the ground, where she stepped over it. She began to walk, then run.

 _This wasn't right, this couldn't be happening, this was wrong, all wrong, Grindewald never attacked Diagon Alley, where was Dumbledore? He should be here already. She couldn't do this, shouldn't do this, was altering time by even being here, all wrong, all wrong._

Into the fog-dust. She saw nothing but vague humanoid shapes running and jets of light— _mainly green_ , her mind categorized and informed her. She pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth, watering eyes trying to find a landmark of some sort to familiarize herself.

But there were none. The buildings were piles of stone and wood on the ground, and the cobblestones were dark. Blood and… _other_ things.

She stumbled further, trying to get her bearings, wondering why she thought she could do anything, and tripped over the body of a boy. _Maybe five,_ her mind supplied as she scrambled away, eyes wide with horror, _torn away from his mother_. _She must be near._

Teddy Lupin with his blue hair flashed through her mind, replacing the unknown child's face. An orphan to never know his mother and father. A mother and father never to see their son grow up. A lifetime of memories torn away.

She felt something in her break looking at his slack face, a dam unplug itself. Something dark and twisted with thorns slithered around her insides and made itself home— _the boy's green eyes staring, forever staring, forever and ever and ever_ —shattering barriers she never knew she had. Barriers already weakened by the beast from her nightmare.

The blonde-haired mother, mouth open in a scream cut off, was on the ground not two feet away from her son. Hand outstretched, imploring. Packages strewn about her.

And the barrier shattered, and that dark thing, full of thorns and knives, rushed through her bloodstream like lava, heating her up almost to combustion. She was on her feet. She was moving. Her wand was raised. Her mind was blank except for one thing.

" _CRUCIO!"_

And the red-robed figure she found setting a pile of wreckage on fire, his back to her, fell. The dark thing let her feel his every synapses firing, a tingle if happening in one spot but excruciating pain when directed all over. It let her feel the blood rushing from his bit lip. It fogged her mind, intoxicating her. Her scar burned. His nerves burned, fried.

She turned before a spell hit her, letting go of the Crucio as she spun away from the oncoming curse. Her scarf was gone. His half-mask was as red as the other's mouth. A sigil on his left breast. His lips formed words. _Avada Kedavra._

And that dark thing, a furious maelstrom of knives all wanting to _cut_ , to _rend_ , rushed upward inside her again.

" _Diffindo!"_

The Severing Curse struck his arm, severed it clean through. Blood splattering the dirty cobblestones. Wand and arm fell. His face lost its ruddy colour and turned to chalk. She watched him crumple.

And with him went that dark thing; holding her up with its marionette strings, she sagged when it was cut. Her knees hit the ground hard.

Her breath _whooshed_ out of her, and she tasted salt on her lips.

 _She had used the Cruciatus._

Her wand was warm in her hand, as if pleased with her, and she had to fight the urge to cast it away. She ignored the commotion around her, the bodies near her, and used both hands to push against her sternum, where it ached most. Doing that, using that curse, had hurt something inside of her. It felt like her very _soul_ was ripping.

 _The Killing Curse breaks souls,_ she remembered, from a life that seemed a fantasy now. Voldemort's Horcruxes were proof that souls could split.

She remembered the ring hidden in his bedpost.

 _Tom Riddle's_ Horcrux was proof.

The second Unforgivable had taken something from her too. It had sullied her soul, her very being. A sob caught in her throat.

She was weak. She had Crucio'd another human being and made an amputee of another. And she had _liked_ it. How could she not be just like Bellatrix? She had loved the feeling of that wizard under her wand, under her power. Hadn't wanted to end it at all. And this was only the beginning. When would she hurt someone else?

Her sight went dark at the edges. She couldn't go back. What would Ron and Harry think about her? They would think Bellatrix's wand had possessed her or something. The dark thing had possessed her, surely, but the dark thing _was_ her. It was part of her and she had let it in without a fight. Oh, Merlin. What would _Neville_ think, his parents in St. Mungo's and now her using Bellatrix's wand to further her insane quest to maim as many people as possible?

She gagged.

She had to get out of there. She had the wild thought of snapping her wand—bugger the book, bugger Fate, bugger the whole sodding wizarding world. She could live without a wand, live without magic. She wouldn't have to justify being alive to Pureblood supremacists, wouldn't be looked down on by those wizards believing they were better than her. She could live in absolute isolation from the press, from the Ministry, from everyone who could intrude in her life.

Reality reasserted itself quickly, as it was wont to do. She couldn't do that, any of it, any more than she could dye her hair blonde and call herself Barbie. She had things to do, things to accomplish, NEWTs to take.

She just wouldn't tell anybody, she decided, and when Harry asked her about getting a new wand to replace Bellatrix's, she wouldn't tell him it had bonded with her fully, she'd just say it worked fine for her, not like the one Ron had given him. And if questioned, she could divert their attention away. No one would believe she had _tortured_ somebody else, for Merlin's sake! _She_ didn't quite believe it herself.

The cobblestones inches away from her knee exploded.

A shard flew up and sliced her cheek. Blood trickled down her face. She felt a haze enter her mind, not letting her panic, telling her where the attacker was positioned behind her. The hysterical part of her, so predominant before, was shifted to the back of her mind as the calm part of her took over. It told her that sigil she had seen was the sign of the Deathly Hallows. It reminded her where she would have forgotten that Grindewald had carved it into a wall at Durmstrang. He must have taken it as his own sign.

That meant the wizards attacking Diagon Alley were part of Grindewald's Lightning Guard. His own Death Eaters.

This new information, so curious to her analytical mind, was pushed away when another spell was sent her way, this time slicing into the side of her stomach.

She didn't move, even as the blood poured out of the wound and soaked her jumper, more profuse than her cheek. The pain was like a cold drink of lemonade in summer heat, pushing the hysterical part of her away entirely. Her tight grip on her wand slackened, and her fingers tingled where blood rushed back into them.

She finally got to her feet, her wand loose in her hand so sweat wouldn't make her drop it. The same dust that covered the alley covered her clothes and hair, yet it looked like Grindewald's wizards were finished wrecking the buildings, for the debris in the air was clearing and she could see her attacker clearly when she turned.

He had taken his mask off and his blunt face reflected his amusement when his glance flicked to the two men she had fallen, one unconscious from prolonged Cruciatus and the other suffering massive blood loss and likely to die if he wasn't helped soon. It was too late to save his arm.

"Dumbledore's niece." It was not a question.

Hermione was startled out of her calm, her reflexes terribly slow at the flick of his wrist. She raised a shield, barely catching the Disemboweling Hex before it hit her. Cold washed over her before it was suddenly gone.

"How would you know?" she asked, aggravated for temporarily losing control. Her stomach rolled uneasily.

The silver sigil on his robes glinted in the dimmed sunlight. The sign of the Deathly Hallows stolen and twisted to form a madman's campaign. A black ribbon held his blond hair out of his face. He could have been cousin to the Malfoys, if he were handsomer. The ends of his robes were singed, but otherwise he looked unruffled. Not even a speck of dirt or debris on him. Pillock.

"'Dumbledores,' my leader tells me, his most loyal servant, 'cannot pass up an opportunity for a photo shoot showing them as the last defense against evil.'" He cocked his head, like a vulture picking out his meal before it was dead. "Tell me. You are a schoolgirl, yet you charge out to fight. Your Severing Curse was admirable, yes, but you did not kill either of your opponents. Rather, you put one to sleep and let the other pass out. What is your purpose in fighting if you will not defeat your foe completely?"

The dark part of her, which she'd believed had gone dormant again, laughed at his assumption that she put the first of the Guard to sleep.

"Sleeping and passed out," she said, instead of laughing, "means they aren't bothering anyone." She wanted to say more, but held her tongue. She didn't know why he was conducting a conversation with her when he could be cursing her, but she wasn't going to let him catch her distracted again. She wondered how long it had been since she'd left Madame Amber's. Hours and hours, it seemed. Where _was_ her uncle?

It was becoming harder and harder to think after losing so much blood. She had to act, and fast. She shot a spell at his chest—a Nightmare Curse for spite—her dark self enjoying the look on his face as glittering blue light enveloped him.

His body sagged and his eyes half-closed before he managed to do the counter-spell and the blue light dissipated. When he straightened, his eyes could have cut glass.

Though she felt exhilarated for returning his curse, she had to strain to focus through the pain. So refreshing earlier, it was writing her death note now. She wouldn't last long if she didn't heal herself soon. She was exhausted and declining rapidly.

He tsked-tsked as he began to circle. She followed his lead, keeping her eyes on him.

"Not obeying proper dueling etiquette." He tsked again. "I am very disappointed in your teachings."

Merlin, he was like a bad Batman villain. She wanted to scream at him to get on with it but couldn't. She needed to save her breath.

"Maybe that is for the best," he continued. "Our time together is running short."

He saluted her with a hard-edged smile and raised his wand.

Hermione realized very quickly that she had severely underestimated what _real_ dueling was like. Lockhart was a joke and Harry's last duel with Voldemort only had one spell, right at the end. This— _this_ was like standing on a blanket covering poisonous snakes and deciding to do jumping jacks.

All concerns fell away from her. She had many things to do, yes, but they would not matter if she died in the now ruined Diagon Alley. People might wonder about the ease in which she pushed them back—her friends, certainly, would not be thrilled to learn she was not focusing on living—but they were not her. All there was was the duel.

Heat, unimaginable heat, coming off the rapidly exchanged spells. Ozone in the air, as if lightning had just struck. The pun amused her.

Curses and hexes, jinxes and charms, Unforgivables—all equal when you knew it was either keep fighting or die. She had no doubts that he would kill her if he got the chance. She never looked away from her death written in his eyes.

He used only offensive, never defensive. More _Crucio_ and _Avada Kedavra_ 's than she could count. Heart-stopping spells, severing curses aimed at her neck, spells to turn her body inside out.

Hermione responded with offensive magic, generously dosed with children's spells. Jelly-Legs Jinx, Tickling Charm, the Bat-Bogey Hex—Ginny would have been _so_ proud.

Everyone disregarded just how _annoying_ they could be. Besides, she wasn't strong enough just yet to fire something powerful.

Step-turn, keeping to the circle. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She stumbled frequently in the dance, but he never took advantage of it like she expected. She often took advantage of the openings in his defense. He closed them too quickly, however, for anything to stick for long.

Step-turn, spin away from the Killing Curse. No block for that. Sneezing Jinx. Leg-Locker Curse before he can do a silent counter-spell. Just a little longer…

Boils erupted on her hands. The sweat on her hand let her keep hold of her wand.

Step-turn, step-turn. Get closer. Direct strength down her arm and into her hand. Focus, focus. She could do this. Closer…

Another Severing Curse, this one so close she felt a sharp pain in her neck. Blood ran thinly down. A lock of brown hair fell to the ground.

Hermione stumbled, directing all her will, body, mind and soul, to her right hand, hoping beyond hope it would work or she was as dead as that little boy.

The Dumbledore _unus pactus_ ring warmed.

He was waiting for her to straighten. She did, looking him square in the eye and smiling a tight-lipped smile.

" _Expelliarmus_ ," she said, ending it.

Harry would have been proud, she thought as she deftly picked his wand out of the air. He always appreciated a good Disarming Spell.

Hermione remembered a saying: They say a diamond will often withstand heavy blows from the wrong angle, but can be broken along a precise line with only a tap.

Her opponent was too strong for her, weak and wounded as she was. He had merely been playing with her from the start. But that had been his weakness—not killing her when he had so many chances—and the longer the dance of death had gone, the more she learned of his weaknesses, her own weaknesses. It had brought them closer and closer, until there was no way for her Disarming Spell to not completely slip through his defenses.

Exaltation rushed through her. She wanted to scream and shout. Jump around and yell! She watched his face contort—rage, disbelief, reluctant admiration—it was all there and it tasted like fine wine.

She raised her own wand, a Stunning Spell on her lips.

His face still reflecting his disbelief, he fell forward, like a chess piece knocked over. Her lips parted in confusion as she stepped back.

Tom Riddle was revealed standing behind him, his face like stone and wand still raised.

No, she had been wrong. _His_ eyes spelled death, and not hers.

When she looked down at the blond— _she didn't even know his name_ —it was confirmed. He was dead.

Riddle stepped over the dead man as if he'd already forgotten him. She watched, too many emotions crowding her mind to think coherently, as he tilted her chin and ran light fingers through the blood on her neck. His jaw clenched and unclenched.

"Come," he said in a voice like gravel.

Too dazed and with too many conflicting emotions within her to do anything else, she complied, the willing sheep following the unlikely shepherd. She couldn't take her eyes off him, didn't see who was fighting with the remaining Guard, didn't see the victims of their bloody attack on the ground, didn't see anything or anyone but _him_. Someone had come for her, for _her_ and not Harry. For _Hermione_.

Only when he activated the portkey and she was taken away from Diagon Alley and the misery it now held could she take her eyes away from him.

She left him there, staring at the spot where she had disappeared, a silver otter with her voice calling to him for help at the forefront of his mind.


	17. Act Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer;** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, "Why God? Why me?" and the thundering voice of God answered, There's just something about you that pisses me off.

—Stephen King

* * *

Hermione felt alertness come slowly, like a migraine. The hospital wing was dark and shadowed, the only light coming from the lamp hanging beside Madam Curfin's office door. Even that little light hurt her eyes.

She remembered falling to the ground. She remembered Abraxas, angry that the rest of the Death Eaters had followed Riddle instead of staying like they were supposed to, carrying her. She remembered seeing through almost black vision Madam Curfin's fear when Abraxas laid her on a bed.

She remembered waking before, seeing Dumbledore's aged face, looking all the older in the morning light as he looked down on her. She remembered a number he recited— _forty-nine_ —that made her shudder. She remembered another foul-tasting potion, one that she welcomed to take her away from the world, if only for a little while.

Not once had she remembered Tom Riddle.

But he was there now.

He sat at the side of her bed, cloaked in abundant shadows. She could not read the expression on his face, nor see his eyes. She was reminded of those trap-door spiders, the ones that could wait for days for their prey to step _just so_ into their trap.

Hermione did not know if she should look for a trap or if she had already stepped into it.

She sat up and looked at him. She did not know if he was looking back. Time ticked on in the background.

Remembering the artificial cut on her neck, she raised her hand to it before recalling the far more serious hole in her stomach. She felt a bandage under the flimsy nightgown the Healer had put her in. There was no pain when she experimentally prodded it. Hermione checked her emotions for relief, happiness, worry.

Nothing. Her always running emotions had been deadened. Whatever potions Madam Curfin had given her were a blessing, she decided. She did not want to feel anything, not right now.

She pulled the thin blanket up, folded her hands in her lap and looked again at Riddle, who hadn't moved during her self-inspection.

"How long has it been?"

"Two days," he answered as if he had been waiting for her to ask.

She considered. A lot of things would have happened in two days after an attack— _massacre_ , her mind whispered, _forty-nine_ —on Diagon Alley by Grindewald. The Ministry had probably already implemented the restrictions on the community—travel in pairs, don't go out at night, ward your home, practise defensive spells—that had been so useless against Voldemort. What was Dumbledore doing? He had visited her and told her he had questions, but they could wait until she was released from the hospital wing. But she wanted them now. She couldn't stand not knowing what was happening outside this too quiet room. She couldn't stand to be all alone with her revolving thoughts.

 _Forty-nine._ Exhaled with every breath and inhaled the next. _Massacre._ There was no escaping it; it pounded like a drum through her bones, her blood, and the air in her body.

Her fault, all her fault. Her and that bloody book.

She wanted to go home.

Riddle shrugged. "Then go home."

Her gaze flicked back to him. She hadn't realised she'd spoken.

"It's not that easy." If only it were. Before, she wouldn't have been afraid of going back. But now… Blissfully forgetting this adventure was no longer feasible.

"To go home?" She nodded. "Of course it is," he insisted, sounding aggravated.

She felt a matching aggravation rise in her— _why wouldn't he just_ listen _to her?_ —before remembering that he had no home to go to. Had killed the father who hadn't wanted him. She could see how hard it would be for him to understand that she, with her supposed home and tutors on standby, couldn't go home.

She waited for the pity to come; it didn't.

Hermione changed the subject. "Why are you here?"

Time ticked on as she waited for Riddle to answer. Finally, he said, "I've heard that people in comas or unconscious can hear when you speak to them. It doesn't matter what you talk about—the weather, books, the mating habits of beetles—as long as you keep reaching out to them." He paused. "They say the unconscious person comes back faster than if no one had talked to them at all."

Hermione had heard that too. "Did you talk to me?"

"No."

Her laughter rang across the empty ward. It was wrenched from her, an alien noise coming from her mouth, filled with grief and pain, more pain than she could keep inside her. It felt better getting it out; confined inside her it had starting eating away at her insides. The alien noise echoed down the wing like bells and the fire in the torches along the walls flickered, steadied. They turned as one to look at the door to Madam Curfin's office. After a few moments, they realised she wasn't coming out to send him away and put more potions into Hermione.

Riddle turned back to her, a barely there smirk on his mouth. His eyes contrasted the humour, though, and Hermione felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

"Do you know who you were dueling?"

Something in her twisted. Loathing and guilt rose in her throat like bile. She looked away from his ruthless eyes, picked at a loose thread on her blanket.

She heard the answer anyway. "You were dueling one of His inner-circle. A third-tier general named Andrei Hubrik. Despite being a Muggleborn, he advanced high in Grindewald's army, eventually becoming one of the Lightning Guard and commanding his own troops."

She wished she was still unfeeling, that the potion hadn't worn off so quickly once she woke. She didn't want to hear this, to _feel_ this sharp-clawed emotion called guilt shred her recently healed insides.

"Stop," she whispered.

She felt the bed depress then his breath was next to her ear, just a fraction of an inch closer and his lips would be against her skin. She closed her eyes. It felt like some forgotten deity, old and great and terrible, was sitting beside her, judging her attributes and sins and finding her wanting. Tom Riddle would not be a benign deity, she knew, but one that required bloody, horrific sacrifices from his servants.

"His life wasn't very interesting," he went on. "There was another wizard, however, who was _very_ interesting. He slipped into a coma almost immediately when a Healer from St. Mungo's attempted to revive him, showing signs of prolonged Cruciatus. Very sad."

Her breaths were coming in big gulping gasps, but she still wasn't getting enough air. She tried leaning away from Riddle, getting away from his malicious presence, but he blocked her with his arm, blocked her between him and the bed. She was very, very cold.

"No." She pushed against his chest, felt the walls begin closing around her. "Go."

"Dear, dear Hermione," he whispered, pulling her hands away from his chest and trapping them against the mattress. His eyes were alive in the way they were not when he was wrapped in his poor orphan Tom persona. He pushed his face into hers so she couldn't turn away. His eyes were alive in a dead, cold way. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that wizard, would you?"

She shook her head.

"Don't lie to me, Hermione." His grip on her wrists tightened. "I can't tolerate liars."

She looked away from those deadalive eyes. If she just ignored him, didn't react to his incendiary comments, he would get bored with her, leave. She just had to ignore his presence. She didn't give any credence to the fear pumping through her body like blood. He would go away. She knew it.

"They don't know if he'll ever wake," Riddle whispered.

The air was too thick, he was too close, and her skin was on fire. He knew just where to strike. Tom Riddle was insidious. Once he got into your head, nothing could get him out. She was cold no longer, had turned numb. There was still heat in her, though, that his presence ignited within her. But it was a cold, dark heat that would shy away from intense sunlight, like Devil's Snare.

Not as numb as she originally thought.

"Why did you do it, Hermione? Vengeance for the weak and abused?" He paused, considered. "Or, better yet: Did you _like_ using the _Crucio_ on him?"

"Stop," she said again, uselessly.

"Did you like the power it gave you, running through your blood like the finest wine, the richest and most expensive chocolate? Every move they make, every scream coming from their lips—all you. You control their _every move_ , their every pain, their very _breath_." He pressed his lips against her cheek and she felt more than heard him mouth, "Isn't it just divine?"

"Yes," she choked out, past her hatred, past her loathing, past every scar on her soul. "Yes, damn you, yes."

He caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes and sobbed.

"Shh. There now. No one else knows it was you," he whispered. Hermione pressed a fist against her mouth, trying to contain the crying that was getting worse with this new detail. _He_ knew. She would be happier if everyone knew how sadistic she was, if only so he couldn't have this new hold over her.

Riddle firmly removed her hand from her mouth and wiped the tears from her face with a handkerchief pulled from his pocket. Every move was methodical, with the grace of a surgeon, and his gaze never left hers. Every move of his just made more tears fall. _This_ was hell. _This_ was Fate's punishment for her.

She deserved it.

"No more tears," Riddle told her, like a parent scolding a child. "They make you look plain." Like she could worry about that. He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and brushed her hair out of her face, brows furrowed as he studied her features. He looked pained, as if he was having particularly disturbing thoughts. Hermione didn't want to know what could disturb _him_ , so didn't ask. She just wished he would move away. Stop touching her. Forget all about her.

"Cygnus might be distant with you," he told her, changing subjects. The abruptness didn't startle her; this whole midnight rendezvous was abrupt. "His father wasn't in Diagon Alley, but everyone who matters knows you killed the general. I hear Grindewald isn't very happy with you."

Her eyes widened. "Wha—I—"

"I'll be honest with you, Hermione." _Ha._ "It would have looked bad for me if people knew I killed someone. Hogwarts doesn't look for murderers in their Head Boy." Riddle smiled that charming Prince Charming smile he must have practiced in the mirror every morning. "For _you_ , however, with your riches and fame as the niece of the Great Dumbledore, it isn't murder. It's defending the innocent. If the general population was told, they would already be singing your praises. The Honourable Hermione, or some other sappy epithet."

Leaning back, he grasped her chin and gently turned her head to the side. She didn't fight him, just watched him out of the corner of her eye as he looked at the place where the general's—Andrei Hubrik—Severing Curse had grazed her neck.

"Besides," he continued in his Head Boy voice, still staring at her neck, "now you have a new reputation in case you ever decide to rub elbows with shady characters."

She shuddered and jerked her chin from his grip. This game he was playing was over. She might have let him get away with what he had done and said so far, but she wouldn't stand for further mental abuse. She was too tired, and the number—forty-nine—repeating in her mind was so loud it felt like her brain was thumping against her skull. She didn't know how she had held up so long already.

"Now that you've made me _cry_ will you go away? Or do you have a quota?"

He smiled mirthlessly and stood up. Looking down on her like a wild and reckless but adored child, he said, "I have one other piece of news for you. Madame Amber was one of the forty-nine killed."

She watched him walk out of the Hospital Wing with lifeless eyes. Sometime later, when the moon had disappeared and the sun had taken its place, she laid her head down on her pillow and closed her eyes; arms wrapped tight around her, trying to get warm, only one thought ran through her head:

 _Penance, penance, penance._

Madam Curfin came out of her chambers minutes later, the wards having told her that Hermione Dumbledore's temperature had dropped.

* * *

The door closed behind him with a soft click. He clenched his fist, unclenched it. Tom could still feel the blood on his fingers from the last time he had touched her neck.

It would not wash away.

* * *

"There are a number of actions Kingsley can take with this new information." McGonagall frowned at the newspaper on the table, likely wondering how she remembered nothing of the events it proclaimed in large, screaming letters. "And he can. As Acting Minister, he is in control of the Unspeakables and their artifacts dealing with time. For now, however, we will just have to be patient until he moves."

Harry sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. He didn't like it, but who had ever given him the choice? It was so frustrating, though, especially when they shared history with the Acting Minister. He thought Shacklebolt was frustrated by that fact, too, but it was hard to give him any credence when he seemed intent, in his own words, to destroy the threat. If only that threat wasn't Hermione Harry might admire the bastard.

Harry had to admit that he felt a brief frisson of fear when he looked at those changed newspapers, too—he tried not to glance at them again, and failed—but he felt more fear for Hermione. In this new changed history, one that McGonagall didn't remember happening, anything could happen and Hermione, as Dumbledore's supposed niece, would be in the frontlines. Again. Even without Harry there, she attracted danger like a love potion. Love potion in the hands of Romilda Vane, rather.

He sighed again. Bugger. It seemed that his spare thought of visiting Hogwarts and trying to form some semblance of a working relationship with Malfoy would be more than a spare thought. He had found no way to help Hermione from the books in Grimmauld Place, but maybe Malfoy knew something in Malfoy Manor or the Hogwarts library that could. Bugger again.

Harry felt another person enter the Burrow's kitchen. He knew, in that uncomfortable-to-think-about way he always knew when she was near, that it was Ginny, and that she was silently disapproving. It wouldn't stay silent.

Since there really was nothing left to rehash, McGonagall took Ginny's entrance as a sign for departure, perhaps sensing the younger witch's mood. After a few more noncommittal consolations, she left, and the silence between Harry and Ginny had all the presence of a Dementor.

He drummed his fingers on the table, wondering when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be back from Shell Cottage and Fleur's protruding stomach. The kitchen was forlorn without them, he thought, shifting uncomfortably as he felt Ginny's eyes on him sharpen. He was scared of Ginny. He could admit it, if only in his head. Especially when she had lots of room for wandwork in the empty kitchen.

He steeled himself. This was a conversation long overdue, and they both knew it. Harry stood, turned to face Ginny, and began to form replies in his head. It was good to have them ready beforehand, since Ginny had learned the art of the Comeback from Fred and George—

He sighed a third time and shook his hair out of his face. He didn't know when exactly he had grown up, but he seemed to age every time he remembered someone who was no longer there.

"Ginny." Harry leaned back against the table. Ginny only stared. "Well? Let's have it, then."

She didn't need time to recover. "Why?"

"Why what? Why am I not charging out recklessly, like everyone accuses me of? Why am I consulting McGonagall? What?"

"Why are you doing this? Why rescue Hermione?" Her voice was unmistakably harsh.

Harry stiffened and straightened. He couldn't stifle his irritation. She _knew_ him. He had accepted that she had changed her opinions of Hermione, and rather suddenly at that. But he had never questioned her about it. He had preferred to wait until she decided to tell him herself. But Ginny wasn't stupid, and now she was acting like she was, and he wouldn't stand for it any longer. "She's my best friend."

"Best friend who married Voldemort." She crossed her arms across her chest. "That seems pretty clear to me."

"Maybe to you," Harry said, "but not to me. We don't know everything yet."

"Only you would say that," Ginny said with a scoff. "Voldemort's dies, then you immediately jump in when Hermione disappears. You just can't stand not having an enemy to fight, can you? How do you know it wasn't her _choice_ to go back there?"

"I know Hermione," he said. But he didn't know Ginny anymore. Didn't recognize this viciousness in her. "What's wrong with you, Gin?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" She sounded choked on rage. Her mouth twisted, making the sweet, freckled face he fell in love with turn ugly. "I think you've placed your concern in the wrong place. It's _Hermione_ who's spreading her legs for the sodding Dark Lord. It's _her_ with the Dark Mark on her arm. But, oh no, something's wrong with _me_ since I dare to say something bad about the marvelous Hermione Granger. Yeah, all me," she finished bitterly.

Harry understood then, with shining clarity as bright and sharp as the waning sun. "You're afraid for her, aren't you?" he asked quietly.

Hermione had been dropped back in time with a young Voldemort, the same one who almost killed Ginny seven years before. Ginny had been intimately acquainted with the cruel teen. The one who had charmed her into spilling her deepest secrets, possessed her for almost a year, and almost killed a number of students using her body. No wonder it seemed like she had already written Hermione off.

Ginny seemed to fold in on herself at his words.

"It wouldn't even be her fault," she said, and he saw it was tears making her face twist, "for falling for him. I know." Her arms were wrapped around her stomach to ward him off.

"Oh, Ginny." He wrapped her in his arms, ignoring her arms stuck between their bodies. She was shaking. He held her, not letting go until she returned his embrace. This was Ginny, his first love, the girl whose constant presence he'd always taken for granted. Strong, loyal, and compassionate, even if sometimes she had trouble expressing it. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry. But I have to help her. I _have_ to."

"I know," she said, and it sounded like a sob and a prayer all at once. "I know. I'm sorry, too. She's my friend and I haven't been treating her like one since before she left. I just..."

Harry leaned back and smoothed his thumbs over her tear-tracked cheeks. "She'll forgive you."

"I just want this over," she whispered. She held onto his shoulders as if he was the salvation for them all. Birds sang their goodnights to the dusk beyond the open window.

* * *

When Hermione woke again, she was suffocating under what felt like a burning stove. A moment later she released half the castle's blankets were piled on top of her. She grunted when she tried to sit up. The weight held her down like straps.

 _When did Hogwarts' mediwitches become skilled torturers?_ she thought unhappily as she struggled to push them off.

She was unexpectedly given a helping hand in the form of Abraxas. He grinned at her from behind the messy pile of blankets before he dumped them on a chair beside her bed.

"I don't think she's trying to kill you yet," he said as he dumped them on a chair beside her bed. He paused to stare at the impressive pile of blankets. "Then again, it does seem suspicious."

She laughed, surprised, and then relieved that Abraxas wasn't that stoic wizard she remembered physically carrying her the long trek from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. That wizard was long gone from his open face, from the carelessly beautiful way he swept his mane—and, yes, it was definitely a mane, the pillock, and, no, she was not jealous, not even a tiny bit—of hair back as he resumed his seat at her bedside.

"It is good to see you awake," he said, and there was nothing about him at all that reminded him of the casual hatred in his voice as he degraded Cygnus and all his traits that made him run from the Dark Lord's orders at the first sign.

She didn't remember that at all, even as a sharp lance of pain struck her chest at Cygnus's abandonment.

"It's good to be awake," she said, smiling, and ignored the not remembering, "and, of course, to be saved from suffocation by layers."

"Many times have I been called a god," Abraxas said musingly. "But 'hero' is a new one. Mainly it's just worship for my expertise and general adoration that is a Malfoy's natural right. But Abraxas Malfoy the Hero does have a ring to it." He stroked his chin, looking thoughtful.

"Exactly. Just think about it: soon you'll be modeling for the covers of those romance novels Ambresia always carries around," Hermione supplied helpfully. His face screwed up. Her voice turned quizzical. "What? You don't want to be on the cover of books? Or would you prefer _Cunning Plans and Those That Have Them_?"

The look he gave her was decidedly—well, not one she wanted to consider even if there wasn't the obstacle of being in the wrong timeline to think about. "You have no shame," he said.

"I don't miss it," she assured him, and felt her cheeks heat up. Why couldn't she be witty and flirty around boys her own age and not ones decades older? _Unfair,_ she told her kneecaps as she escaped from his gaze. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?" Outside the windows, the sun was at a high peak.

He raised his eyebrows. "Free period," he drawled. The silent chiding made her grumpy. Really, as if she was supposed to remember all her of her friends' schedules. Even if it had been almost four months since school started.

 _Okay, maybe she should have been able to remember that._

"Well," she looked around for something to distract him, "don't you have homework to do?"

"I'll ignore the fact that you are trying to send me away"— _and being terribly unsubtle about it,_ his eyeroll said—"and I'll give you the note for you that Ambresia found." His wand was in his hand before she had a chance to respond and he levitated a bright red envelope into her hands. She flipped it over, glad that it wasn't a Howler, since it hadn't started shouting at her yet, and recognized the messy boy scrawl on the front immediately. _Hermione,_ it read, and her breath caught.

She looked at Abraxas sharply, not minding that he was studying her reaction carefully. "Where did she find it?"

"She said she found it in your dormitory after lunch. When she went to pick it up, it burned her."

She knew a few Dark Arts spells that would do that, but she didn't know how the sender could have. Hermione licked her lips, aware she was about to ask a potentially hazardous question that would only draw more of Abraxas's attention.

"Have you told anyone else?"

Abraxas shook his head, the knowledge of who she meant in his eyes. Maybe he was trying to curry favour individually. Maybe he was playing a minor game with her. Slytherins were like that, she found, including herself with them. Skirting danger when they could just as easily choose to walk down a protected path. She kept her eyes on Abraxas. No, she couldn't see him content to walk idly among the roses. He was the type to attempt to pluck the flesh-devouring one.

Whatever it was, she owed him a debt now. A large one.

She nodded at him and sat back as he said his goodbyes and left the sweets and cards from the few other Slytherins who cared if she was injured.

Somehow, Harry had sent her a letter.

It was short, but encoded so well it took her the rest of the day to decode it. Hermione didn't want to risk translating it onto parchment in case someone—Riddle—somehow found it, so she had to solve it in her head, which took even more time. By the time she thought she had it figured out, it was almost midnight and she'd had to pretend to be asleep the times Madam Curfin popped her head in to check on her.

 _Hermione_ (and she thought it ridiculous that she had to waste so much time decoding her own name, but boys were hopeless),

 _Changed timeline. M.M. doesn't remember, but does remember you._

 _K.S. making noise. DoM._

 _We'll get you out. Remember Moody._

— _H.P. & D.M._

Hermione didn't sleep that night. Besides vague wonder that Harry and Draco had joined together to do something than be utter prats to one another, she didn't know what to think.

Minerva—Headmistress McGonagall?—remembered her. But she didn't remember the Diagon Alley Massacre, even though hours before she had just visited the hospital wing to bring Hermione some study materials and wish her better.

Acting Minister Shacklebolt, an upright wizard if she knew one, who also owed her a Life Debt, was sending Unspeakables—and possibly Aurors, too, if he could manage—after her.

She smoothed out the letter again. It was already ragged around the edges from constant handling. Hermione checked that the Sender's Curse was still on it. It was. It was good work of Draco, she thought, expecting the edges of the defensive curse. She wondered if they had taken the restrictions off his wand, or if Harry had actually let him use his own. They probably had a huge row over it, though Harry would have—obviously, since the curse was there—relented when sense caught up to him.

Constant vigilance, Harry told her, and oddly, that thought was the one that sent her to sleep with a smile, the letter crumbled under her hand.

* * *

Soon Hermione was out of the hospital wing and back into Hogwarts' general population. Though her injuries had been kept very hush-hush, it seemed everyone knew Hermione had participated in defending Diagon Alley from Grindewald's first attack, though nothing like that had ever been put in the paper.

Hermione's small celebrity status as Dumbledore's niece, therefore, grew. This was not necessarily good, seeing as a large chunk of Hogwarts expected her to be coupled with Tom Riddle, the other hero of the hour (and actually in the newspaper for it.) This was hard, not only because Hermione would be required to perform ritual suicide if that ever occurred, as the state between Hermione Dumbledore and Tom Riddle had gone to armed neutrality and, when they were seen in each other's company, which was often, one would think they were either stepping on eggshells or hot coal.

This was of great entertainment value to many seventh year Slytherins, especially one Abraxas Malfoy.

Hermione eventually was able to ignore the new focus on her. It helped that it died down some when Minerva McGonagall began hexing the Gryffindors who talked about Hermione into pigeons, and it spread out from there. Even with that extra incentive, it still took the rest of fall and two weeks of winter before Hermione could walk into the Great Hall without the noise volume increasing.

Winter break came and the school emptied as most of the students went back to their homes. Hermione, who had been invited to three separate homes to celebrate Yule, declined and stayed in Hogwarts. Without the rest of the school, avoiding Riddle by sequestering herself in the library actually worked. He seemed to also be working on something, spending more and more time holed up in his dormitory. This, though pleasing Hermione with his absence, was ominous, as most things the Dark Lord did was.

Thus, when Hermione had figured out how Draco and Harry had sent their letter—Draco was brilliant, she decided, using Arithmancy and a Backward Time spell like that—there was no one to see her body turn translucent, then blue.

Panic reached for her and she shoved it away. It was very disconcerting, she realized, to suddenly become a blue ghost.

No one heard her collapse in the stacks. No one saw her disappear.

Christmas night was a long one.


	18. Act Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Albert grunted. "Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?"

Mort thought for a moment.

"No," he said eventually, "what?"

There was silence.

Then Albert straightened up and said, "Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve 'em right."

—Terry Pratchett

* * *

Hermione hadn't turned into a blue ghost after all. Rather, she'd been _somehow_ pulled to the Christmas night she and Harry had almost been devoured by Nagini Dressed As Dead Bathilda Bagshot and almost caught by Voldemort himself. She didn't know quite how she knew the exact date, but she thought it might be because now there were _two_ Hermione Granger's in the same time and, as the older one, she was lucky enough to know exactly where her—twin?—well, something—was, and found her other self wringing her hands over an unconscious Harry and wondering how she would tell him she had broken his wand. Her current self was in the middle of a large rune circle in the middle of a room that might have been pretty if she wasn't _trapped_ there.

Well, at least there was good news.

The runes shot angry red sparks at her every time she got close enough, or raised her wand in their direction. Hermione sucked her smarting fingers and glared at the innocent looking marks drawn on the hardwood floor. There didn't seem to be anything she could do, unless she could find a way to smudge the runes out.

 _Unless…_

She straightened and concentrated. Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

Hogsmeade, she pictured, knowing she would have a fight if she actually managed it, since Voldemort's lackeys had set up post there. Nevertheless. She had her purse and the tent inside it—it was pure luck she had picked it up from the library table before she went back into the stacks to put away her books. Besides, Hogsmeade was the first place she thought of and she wasn't changing her mind until she got out of this rune cage. She could be picky later.

A moment later she opened her eyes.

Nothing.

Anti-Appartition wards were in place.

Hermione, thoroughly cross by now, kicked at the runes. A vicious shot of red fire, the same colour as a Stunner, scorched her foot and Hermione, hopping on one foot and clutching the other, might have believed her life to be one very long Monty Python gag if she hadn't had proof that it was much worse.

She dropped her foot after a moment, and turned around with an enraged growl to see Voldemort sitting like a king on the only piece of furniture in the room.

He definitely hadn't been there before, she reassured herself, feeling very small and very weak and very out of breath. It would be hard to overlook a ghastly pale mansnake with flaming red eyes anywhere, much less an otherwise empty room.

She had never seen him up close before, at least when he was alive, which she had been thankful for before now. It would have been less startling if she'd seen animate expressions of his face before she was trapped in a room with him. He looked like a very made up B-movie monster, she thought, like his face had melted similar to candle wax and slid down. That was the only explanation for the small lump that was his nose. Nothing, however, could explain his slitted snake eyes.

Oddly, however, it was his hands that drew her attention the most. Pale and long-fingered, they reminded her nothing so much as the hand that, as a child, she had imagined reaching out from under her bed to grab her ankle.

Voldemort—no use calling him Riddle, because this wizard was nothing like the boy she had just ate breakfast with that morning—smiled, and Hermione was more than willing to flee. Gryffindor be damned, she wasn't stupid.

"Hello, Hermione," he said and icy shock wrapped around her as tight as a net. "I have waited a long time for this moment." He motioned to the stand beside him. "Tea?"

That was when the Bad News stopped and took a turn for the Worse.

* * *

Lord Voldemort was a patient man. He had spent two years in Iberia, painstakingly learning bone magic; five years in Tibet to learn the tasking ways their monks amassed magic from the oceans and wind; three years deep in the Peruvian jungle and almost all the blood drained from his body by the Viper Warlocks, who only taught if one could endure the ritual to pay.

No, he, Lord Voldemort, was not impatient. He was not unfamiliar with sacrificing to gain a larger prize. He had waited, had studied, had begun preparing for this day since he had watched the woman—though she did look younger than he remembered, but memory and perception were just another sacrifice of living—in front of him disappear.

She was younger than he remembered. Had been older when Tom Riddle saw her last. Now that he knew who she was, he knew that she had been older when he had seen her as Tom Riddle. The least of her lies.

He did not care that mere hours before this same girl had jumped out of a second-story window with his greatest enemy, Potter, fool that he was. He did not care. He knew what had sent Hermione Dumbledore—Granger-Dumbledore, Mudblood-Pureblood—back, knew that her foolishly insisting to stay with Potter would not last long. Her loyalty would be put to better uses, he knew. She was more Slytherin than Gryffindor, more Pureblood than Mudblood, more than the best-friend of Harry Potter. His Mark on her arm, special to her only, his first and beloved for it, said everything.

Lord Voldemort was a patient man. His time had come.

"No greeting for your husband, wife?" he said. He might be patient, but he could not abide rudeness, unless it was in service to him.

That snapped Hermione out of the speechlessness she had fallen into. Her lips, pink and wet from licking them, opened and shut. "You mean," she began haltingly, as if unsure whether she could speak, which tantalized him, "we're still married? Even… even now?"

"Yes," he answered. "We never found anyone competent to brew the Lover's Bond cure after Madam Amber disappeared." She jolted. He smiled. "I believe Severus could brew it, but he is busy with school duties. I'm sure you understand."

She turned away from him abruptly, shoulders stiff with wounded pride. Oh, dear. Was she another one who had foolishly believed that Snape, his Snape, most loyal of them all, more than Wormtail, could defect to the Light?

Oh, the vulgarities of youth. She would learn; would be taught.

* * *

"How did you get me here and not my younger counterpart?" Hermione asked. She kept her back to him, not trusting in her little knowledge of Occlumency to shield her from his gaze. _Get him away from Snape…_

Voldemort tsked. "I am the strongest wizard in the world, Hermione."

He was talkative, she would agree with Harry on that. _And who had told him gloating was couture?_ Abraxas, probably. He would be surprised to know that he wasn't the most powerful, though. If Draco knew about his new wand… She ducked her head to hide a smile.

"Magical power doesn't have anything to do with it," she said with a sniff. Dumbledore and Harry had taught her this, even if Dumbledore wasn't very trustworthy at the moment—or previously, but she would think about that later. "It's how you use it that counts."

"If I didn't know you were a Mudblood," he said, so coldly she flinched, "I would never doubt Albus was your Uncle. But then"—he paused—"I should expect that Gryffindor sensibility in you."

Hermione dared a glance over her shoulder. She didn't dare taunt him with her blood-status. She was Slytherin enough to know that one didn't intentionally provoke a bigger enemy who was entirely capable of crushing them. They retreated to wait for a better strike.

"So will it be death, Riddle?" she whispered.

She was remembering her third year and the curtain rising on Scabbers' real identity. She remembered Sirius—pale, gaunt, a criminal, only trusted by a half-kneazle.

" _THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED! DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!"_

One part of her conscious was screaming, _Torture! Death! Lord Voldemort, you idiot!_ The other, the majority, was filled with a fierce gladness. Knowing she might die—might have the chance to die in defense of her best-friend, might get a chance to make up for her mistakes, die in defense of her _world_ , no matter what Purebloods like the Malfoys said.

Hufflepuffs might be known for their loyalty—she hadn't known a single one in Hogwarts who had joined the Death Eaters after Cedric's death. But a Gryffindor's loyalty went more than just joining sides or standing up for a friend. Dying in service to a greater belief, whether it be a beloved or a world free of Lord Voldemort's taint, was every proper Gryffindor's wet dream.

She felt the displacement in the air as Voldemort stood. She watched him come toward her, boots clicking on the hardwood before they stopped at the outer edge of her cage. She knew if she looked up his eyes would not be amused at all, nor would they be bored. Hermione didn't look up.

A pause, fragile and fraught with something she didn't want to examine closely, and his soft answer that utterly failed to shatter the silence:

"Harry Potter does not concern me right now."

He left soon after. Bile was watery and acidic at the back of her mouth, burning the sensitive nerves. Every time she swallowed it down, more came up, like she had turned into an Eternity Goblet, except this was the sharp burning taste of terror.

She didn't know when she'd be able to leave. Voldemort's responses to some of her questions had given her hope, but uncertainty ruled over her with an iron fist. Hot tears gathered behind her closed eyes.

Voldemort was playing some kind of game with her, she was certain. He would probably slip Veritaserum in her food or drink—if she was ever given any, which was entirely possible—when she failed to look him in the eyes to equip his Legilimency. Well, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction either. She would find a way out of this cage before she could starve.

The floor was hard under her head, even with her robes as a cushion, and a relentless pounding began at the back of her skull. She had forgotten how much she hated even sitting on floors, much less confined to it. She sat up, hoping the shift would ease the ache. It didn't.

Despite that, she still managed to turn when she heard the door open. Hermione must have done something terrible in a past life. Leveling entire civilizations terrible. Lucius Malfoy was at the door.

"What"—she realized she had rasped, and cleared her throat—"what do you want?"

She had always been dismissive of the elder Malfoy, even when she had met him before second year. She had quickly forgotten how his whole body, shoulders and hands and legs as much as his face commanded attention. It had fallen through her memory in lieu of the constant presence of his son at school, who always had to work to command that sort of half-fear, half-sycophant attention, and most of the time failed at it. Now she remembered it, as Lucius Malfoy exuded malice and disgust out of every pore without even seeming to. It was unexpected to recognize Abraxas in the contours of his face, the arch of his sculpted eyebrows, the tight lines of his mouth that meant he was holding back rage.

He also didn't look nearly as discontent as he had told everyone with ears after the battle, either.

"My master has seen fit to feed and clothe you, girl." He levitated a platter of hot food and neatly folded robes into her cage. "If you behave, you will be released into more comfortable surroundings." His silent _if not_ imprinted itself on her mind. "A house elf has been provided for your use."

Done with the words he had obviously memorized, his lips took an unpleasant twist. "I knew that renowned intelligence of yours would fail one day, Granger. How far the mighty and all."

Hot temper made her narrow her eyes. Lucius Malfoy couldn't hold a torch against pale skin and red eyes. "Look in a mirror, Mr. Malfoy. A prisoner in your own home, a broken wand, and a son held hostage by the very sociopath you declared yourself to. How far indeed. At least I'm not here by choice."

She watched his face still, the very stillness expressing more rage and hate than any words could. She tensed, her wand up her sleeve warming in preparation. _Just let him cross that rune, so close…_

But Lucius Malfoy gained control of himself, with obvious effort. The glare he gave her said that this wasn't over yet, and she returned it, because of course it wasn't, he was still alive.

When he was gone, Hermione slumped back down to the floor, ignoring the delicious smell wafting off the steaming plate. She looked up at the ceiling. "Well, Abraxas did invite me to Malfoy Manor for Christmas," she said. Laughter echoed in the empty room before turning to sobs.

Tom left Dumbledore's office and hurried toward the dungeons with quick, furious strides. Hermione was missing, had left Hogwarts to do Merlin knew what, with all of Grindewald's army looking for a way to catch her. _Stupid, stupid girl._ He was almost incoherent with rage. He would have to find his wayward bride and bring her to task. The clenching in his gut was getting painful.

The Founders' Book would tell him where she was, he was sure of it.

Imagine his surprise when his glamoured book on the goblin rebellion turned out to be a fake.


	19. Act Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer;** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it.

—Wendell Berry

* * *

Harry stood shrouded beneath his Invisibility Cloak, warm breath making no impact on the chill, foggy morning air. He shifted, trying to keep quiet on the gravel paved lane. He should have worn a jacket.

"You're sure she changed the wards?" he whispered. He didn't fancy being hexed for all the trouble he'd went through to be there.

"Shut up," Malfoy whispered, a little too loud for the quiet street. His breath smelled like jam and pumpkin juice. Harry wrinkled his nose and tried not to think about sharing his father's cloak with _Malfoy,_ of all people.

One thing was for sure: he couldn't tell Ron about this, no matter how supportive he was now.

"Of course she changed the wards, Potter," Malfoy continued, staring at a point in the mist he couldn't see. "We just have to wait until… _now_."

They moved forward, the mist falling around the cloak as if they weren't there, following whatever sign Malfoy saw. The fog seemed to get thicker the further they walked, until Harry couldn't see his own hands. The mist had invaded the cloak. It felt like he should be choking on it.

Still, Malfoy moved forward, his steps as sure as if it were a sunny day in August. Against every instinct in him, he reached out and grabbed hold of a bit of Malfoy's cloak so he wouldn't get left behind.

Malfoy reared his head back like a horse on a rein, looking as disgusted as he felt, but didn't comment, which Harry thought was one in his favour.

They approached the gates—then they were through, the mist gone, and Malfoy was throwing off the cloak and embracing his mother.

Harry looked away, embarrassed and uncomfortable watching his arch-nemesis showing something other than hate. He could hear him whispering, "They really did it" over and over and Narcissa Malfoy's soft sobs.

He turned away entirely, pretending to be absorbed in folding the cloak and stuffing it under his shirt. It was hard to see Malfoy as a real person and not a cardboard cutout of his assumptions. He took in the house instead.

No wonder Malfoy was spoiled, he thought. Calling this 'home' would give anyone a swollen head.

It looked like a castle that could be found in Aunt Petunia's old romance books—the ones she pretended she didn't read and hid from Uncle Vernon under the sitting room sofa. Harry had read through some once, in a fit of boredom when his aunt and uncle had taken Dudley school shopping.

Malfoy's home, all moss covered stone and tinkling water fountains, looked like a place where some dark haired man, brooding and convicted, lived.

 _Which made him the damsel seeking help._

He turned quickly back to the Malfoys.

* * *

It didn't take long for Hermione to be moved into another room.

Unlike most of her fellow Gryffindors, she could compartmentalize and act as if she would be the perfect little prisoner, if not actually be one. At least, that was how she justified it. In reality, as long as she knew Voldemort would personally see to it she was punished, there was no way she would act out.

It got her to a bed that was practically lush compared to the hard floor she hadn't found much sleep on the night before. It smelled nicer, too—it didn't have the lingering smell of non-use as the other one. She woke up to the new room, wondering how Lucius Malfoy had moved her if he didn't have a wand.

Didn't matter anyway; she was there, with nothing to complain about—besides the whole prisoner bit, really, and maybe the pea soup—so what did it matter how she was moved from one room to another?

She looked to her left, luxuriating in the feel of the sheets scratching pleasantly at her face, and saw a pile of books on the nightstand, along with her wand. Neither did anything for her. She was as empty of emotion as a beating drum. Beyond that, she could see another rune-circle warding her in. It was far enough away that it was obvious they did it so she could walk around her bed for exercise.

 _Like a dog on a run._

Hermione didn't know if she could be any more depressing, but it would be interesting to see.

Beyond the runes was a gilded mirror, large enough to cover the wall. She ignored the baggy-eyed girl in it.

To the other side of the bed, dawn light shone though a large window.

She turned her back to it.

* * *

Soon. Soon, he would have her secrets.

Lord Voldemort, the almighty, the reckoner who brought fear to hearts of traitors and the common, watched from the enchanted mirror. Hermione Granger-Dumbledore, Mudblood-Pureblood, didn't understand yet, but she would. His Mark superseded any petty obligations she felt she owed. Hermione only had one obligation—to him.

She would tell him her secrets of life and he would bring her the honour she deserved. Purebloods and disgusting blood traitors would regret their treatment of her; she would make sure of it. He could see it already.

He already had young Draco as a hostage just for her, though his compensations for that ploy were well worth it too. Lucius deserved to pay for his treachery for forcing Lord Voldemort to announce his presence earlier than he had planned, and not even bringing him the prophecy for it. He would have to bring the boy back when she was ready. The only thing he didn't look forward to was the Malfoy woman's hysterics. He had hoped being in constant proximity to her better sister would turn her, but so far nothing. The bitch was still annoyingly docile and teary. He would order Lucius to beat it out of her—or Lord Voldemort would himself.

He stood when it was clear Hermione had went back to sleep. He touched the photograph placed beside him, showing a young, fairly handsome young man he recognized from the old wandmaker's memories.

There was work to do.

* * *

Tom searched his room, and, since the girls' dormitory was empty for the holidays, searched her room, but found nothing just like he knew he would. The girl had disappeared with his book into a world filled with dangers to her. The book would undoubtedly be given to Grindewald after his minions pried it from Hermione's dead fingers.

Angry was not the word that accurately depicted his main emotion, but it would do in a pinch.

He debated whether to contact Abraxas and Cygnus, but decided against it. It would not do to let others know that he couldn't keep control of an eighteen year old girl, especially as she was Dumbledore's niece.

He snarled and shredded the pillows on her bed with a nameless spell.

This was the last time, he thought, that Dumbledores got the better of him.

Tom stormed out of Hogwarts with only one thing on his mind: getting Hermione.

* * *

Hermione stared at the ragged girl depicted in the mirror. Unkempt hair, circles as dark as tar under her bloodshot eyes, robes that were starting to hang off her frame as her already small appetite deserted her entirely and vacated to France. She had just started to grow out of the starvation look she'd acquired on the Horcrux hunt, too.

Even as lethargy pulled at her muscles, she could not sleep. It wasn't for lack of trying, either. But then again, she wasn't in a hurry to sleep when she could feel Lord Voldemort watching her. She didn't think anyone could blame her for that.

The door opened and Lucius Malfoy came in, her dinner carried in his hands. It smelled tempting but even thinking about eating made her stomach rebel. He levitated it over the runes and walked out.

She was a prisoner, and her only company was a taciturn Malfoy. Peachy.

Hermione ignored the food and shut the curtains around her bed. She walked over the mattress to the other side and fell to her stomach. Her hair hung in her face as she maneuvered herself off the bed, between the curtain, keeping her grunts quiet as she used it as a shield to slip sneakily under the bed. There was something underhanded about that mirror.

She crawled forward until she found her hiding place, a board that was slightly darker than the ones surrounding it. Her wand popped it open easily. She reached in and took out the Founders Book.

Opening the blank book to the middle, she began to whisper.

This timeline, the original, had Madame Amber in it, and Hermione's marriage to the Dark Lord. Madame Amber disappeared and they stayed married.

The new one had Madame Amber and Hermione's marriage, too. But Madame Amber was dead—without doubt—and there was always the chance they could get rid of their marriage without the Seer.

Hermione wondered whether her meeting with Madame Amber had prompted her death or disappearance. She wondered whether it was the book, Fate, or something more sinister. So far, Madame Amber was the only one who could have broken the joining. It had to be more than coincidence that each timeline consisted of her being taken out of the equation. It _had_ to be.

She would get back to the past and find out, she promised herself. Voldemort had alluded that her presence might be continued in the past. She would make sure that it happened. If the Founders Book didn't help her, she would _find_ a way to get back, even if all the experts said it was impossible.

Hermione had to fix this.

Ennui set in.

Hermione stared at the mirror. The girl reflected in it stared back.

Her other half was hearing noises in the woods, noises she would later find out were Ron stumbling around with the Deluminator.

Soon enough she knew every ounce of her cage. The wards were moved outside the room and she was able to walk about freely. Well, as freely as she could, seeing as technically she wasn't an honoured guest of the Malfoy's. She ignored every book sent to her except the one she had brought with her.

She waited, and stared into the mirror.

* * *

"Look for anything that Hermione might have used. She could have left a message somewhere. Something that'll tell us her plans—or better yet: her location now. Look in the wardrobe, I'll look around—"

"Potter." Malfoy's voice was about as calm as an enraged mama bear. "Shut up. Please."

Narcissa Malfoy didn't even turn around from inspecting the nightstand. "Be nice, Draco dear."

"I said please," Malfoy muttered, not loud enough for his mother's ears.

Harry's ears burned and he scoffed under his breath. "Not right, you didn't."

"Boys," Narcissa said in her soft iron voice, and that was that.

Harry kneeled beside the bed and lifted the heavy sheets and comforter to look at the carved wooden sides. He felt along them, but there were no engraved words. He inspected the whole bed, straining his eyes against the faint dawn light coming through the windows and a Lumos, but there was nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment, mouthing a prayer to whoever was listening that she had left _something_ for him to follow. That she wasn't playing with fire alone.

"Harry," Narcissa called. She was staring hard at a spot on the large—pretentious—gilded mirror covering one entire wall. "I've found something," she said, looking back at him.

"What is it?" he asked, coming closer. The mirror looked perfectly normal to him.

"It's an enchanted mirror," Narcissa explained to him. "A family heirloom that was made by Luiz Malfoy in the seventh century and brought with him when he came to England. It is connected to several other mirrors in this wing, which all show the view of this room when it is occupied. This room was originally made to be a bride's apartments. The Malfoy patriarch would monitor her through it to determine whether she was indulging with another man. The other mirrors are all in His room."

Harry shivered. To know that Hermione had been watched unawares…

She deserved medal— _another_ one—for only stealing a few portraits and papers.

Narcissa raised her wand and swept it across a small expanse of the mirror. Azkaban hadn't taken away her grace. "Look," she said softly, and letters, numbers and odd squiggly lines began burning blue where she had motioned. It was incomprehensible to Harry, who had never taken Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, but Malfoy, who had, frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"Do it again, Mother, across the whole mirror."

They moved back as she did, and soon the whole room was turned blue as the mirror revealed itself to be covered with the writing.

"Whu—what was she _doing_?" Harry asked, staring up at it in awe.

"Finding a way back," Malfoy said. "She found a way to move through time."


	20. Act Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** ; The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Visits always give pleasure; if not the arrival, the departure.

—Proverb

* * *

Hermione thought, if she looked hard enough, if she _felt_ hard enough with all of her senses and not just her eyes, she could feel Malfoy Manor's maliciousness.

She was positive she wasn't hallucinating. The ruddy house was plotting her murder, Dark Lords and hostile patriarchs notwithstanding.

Hermione pushed past the almost blinding pain in her head and stepped into the corridor, out of her prison. Any second now she expected one of the pretentious candelabras on the wall to fly at her and knock her unconscious.

Paranoia, she recalled, was not an uncommon side effect after more than 72 hours without sleep.

Not paranoid, she reconsidered as the lights flickered down the corridor. Delusional, yes, seeing things, yes.

Lights _actually_ flickering? No.

She shuddered. Just a hallucination, she reassured herself. She'd had a few already, seeing things—Nagini—out of the corner of her eye more times than she could count by now, starting at hour 18. Her brain seemed under the illusion that there were five abnormally large Horcrux snakes and they were all slithering on a wall near her. _Pah_.

She stepped toward the part of the caging rune circle that extended into the corridor. A half-circle that ended on either side at the wall, likely embedded in the walls themselves or into the next rooms, the visible part in the hall took up half the space, leaving only enough room for casual passerby to walk past without stepping into it.

She just had to look at it. Just one look and she'd be finished. She could go back to the small comfort of her room. Sleep. Dream of Ron and Harry and Luna and Ginny and Draco and… and nothing whatsoever about Dark Lords.

Hopefully. That last one seemed a pretty tall order to fill. For the last—oh gods, how long had she been here?—few weeks, or months, he'd been the _only_ thing on her mind.

She inched forward a little more, moving away from the wall. The corridor was almost unbearably warm. Probably for Nagini's comfort. A chill went through her at the thought. Just a few more feet, she could almost make out the runes now.

She leaned down, her lank hair falling over her face. With her wand, she copied the rune she needed onto her palm. She would wash it off as soon as she was finished transcribing it to her mirror.

She stood up. Almost lifted by her relief and happiness that overcame her. She could go back into her room now, mark on the mirror until the adrenaline went out from her, then sleep.

She pushed back her hair.

Lucius Malfoy stood in front of her. He smiled.

"My, my. Granger's out of her cage. Whatever shall we do with her?"

"I'm allowed," she said, her throat catching. "I can't get out, can I?" She made a vague motion toward the runes.

He cocked his head. Listening. When he was satisfied, his glance flicked back to her. He was like an iceberg. His face was cold, and deep, and went for miles beyond the surface. Just layers and layers of ice.

He took out a wand. Crudely carved, she guess it was one of the ones Ollivander made under duress for the Death Eaters. She fingered hers. He wouldn't hurt her, would he? Voldemort still hadn't asked his Question of the Day yet.

 _Unless he was tired of her answer._

But no—no, she still had work to do. She went back to the past, she knew it. She, she _knew_ she did. Lucius couldn't hurt her. She fought the urge to close her eyes against the blinding pain in her temple.

What she needed now was a musical interlude. Some time to think before he slit her throat.

"You shouldn't," she said, struggling to deny the tremble in her voice. "He won't like it. You're already in trouble."

His glacier eyes flashed. His face hardened until he was more ice statue than human.

"Then why should I worry?"

"Malfoy…"

"Sheltered, given food and water, clean clothes. _Safe_." He hissed the last. "You do not deserve it."

She thought of Draco, of what he must have went through—of all that was left to come for him, everything Lucius Malfoy had witnessed, and nodded. "I know," she said, swallowing, her muscles relaxing. She could get to him, she could. "But Malfoy, the Order _can_ help you. They will if you just expl—"

 _"Sectum—"_

 _"Expelliarmus!"_

She caught his wand and hop-skipped away from him. He made a move toward her, disregarding the runes, disregarding everything but the hate on his face, and she raised her wand higher. "Don't. I don't want to hurt you."

His face went slack.

His eyes locked onto her wand.

 _Bellatrix's_ wand.

"Don't," she repeated. Tears stung her eyes. Gods, how frustrating could this get? How many times would she change the timeline?

"That wand," he started.

"Vol—" She stopped, started again. She didn't want the Snatchers coming down on her. "He knows I have it. He knows. Ask him yourself."

First thing she did when she got back inside her room was break the crude wand, throwing the pieces in the lit fireplace. The second thing she did was sit on her bed and put her face in her hands.

"Hermione."

Hermione jumped, spun around, and desperately wished for the ability to disappear and reappear at will, like Voldemort apparently had the ability to do.

He hadn't interrupted her doing anything important of course, unless one considered staring into a mirror and absently marking numerals and runes on her leg important. But his very _presence_ there signaled something very bad, she saw in his eyes, in his stance, in the noxious air he exhaled. Worse than the other times he had deigned to visit.

After her confrontation with Lucius, Hermione had reconsidered her refusal to sleep. She'd spent thirteen hours with the covers over her head, bliss overtaking her. Earlier she'd expected she would need a vat of tea before she could be fully recovered from her stint awake, so tired was she still. Unnecessary, now. Lord Voldemort had the ability to wake the dead with his mere appearance.

She knew he was human, knew from intimate experience, but by the wash of his magic—experience and old, old cruelty—he had lost that distinction long ago.

His hands twitched by his sides, but he didn't reach out and touch her from her spot by the mirror, though she thought he would. Instead, he merely watched her with those red, slitted eyes. She shivered, and couldn't blame it on the chill that he brought with him.

Warily, she asked, "What do you want?"

He looked at her. That was all she needed to know. He'd asked her almost every single day since she arrived. Question of the Day.

"No. I can't—I _won't_ tell you what happens."

"If I were a less gracious wizard, I could read it from your mind," he said, and she backed up until she her back pressed against the mirror. The cold seeped through her robes, her skin, and deep into her bones.

"You are bored here," Voldemort continued casually, as if he hadn't noticed her reaction. "A mind such as yours should never be subjected to such tedium." He glanced at the books by her bed, which were piled precariously now since she hadn't yet touched one of them. "You don't even read." This time, it was his voice that made her shiver.

Her hands twisted frantically behind her back, and she said, "Let me go then. I'm no use to you."

"You are mistaken," he said, his lips stretched in what could have been a smile, "you have been very useful."

"How? Why do you keep me here?"

He stepped forward, and she stepped away and to the side. The confining wards were nowhere nearby, and Voldemort was inside them. Confined in her cage, though, conceivably, he knew the way out.

Voldemort looked at her as one might when someone has made a terrible faux pas, and his eyes were dry with rage like a desert sun.

"Such fear," he said, the words stripped of every imaginable meaning. "I wonder why you fear me, when I merit no such thing."

 _Was he_ fucking _kidding?_ her mind screamed. She swallowed, and repeated her question. "How have I been useful?"

He moved so quickly, she only had time to inhale before he was in front of her, death-like hands coming down hard on her shoulders to keep her from running. Courage, bravery, reckless Gryffindor rashness—all of it left her in one soundless cry.

"Please," she whispered. She would have cried if her eyes weren't so dry.

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him, into his eyes, red as a bloody moon. He raised his other hand, and she shivered as it swept down her neck until he had a firm grasp on the curls at the nape of her neck. A nagging, hysterical voice tried to tell her that this was the Dark Lord, not Tom, and she told it firmly to shut up. She knew that, thank you very much.

"Please," was all she said. _Please bring me back. Please, Fate._

"You have been very useful," he repeated at a whisper, his voice slithering down her skin and into her very marrow. "By acting exactly as Fate intended. For now, Hermione: farewell."

His hand shot out and his open palm hit the mirror. All of Hermione's work—painstaking letters and numbers she'd written invisibly, exhausting her mind and body by using what little wandless magic she had—turned white and glowed. Hermione covered her eyes with a cry.

She had one second of pure astonishment before darkness bloomed around her, beside her, inside her, the same way it had when the Book had taken her away from Hogwarts.

She arrived exactly as she had the first time. With magic overwhelming her and washing over her like the foulest of tsunamis, making her gasp and have to catch herself on a high gate, and not a little bit of nausea too. It passed in moments that felt like eternity, and until then, she contented herself with concentrating on her breathing. So she was back, away from Voldemort— _how had he_ known _? Oh gods, don't tell me he knew all this time!_ and finally: _How will he use it?_ Back to the future, however, or to the past?

She would have to find out and fast.

Her journey had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that she kept her eyes closed longer than she normally would have, wondering at her sudden change of fortune—or _mis_ fortune, as the case may be—and it took her longer to realize she was not alone in what she now recognized as the gated entrance to the Malfoy estate.

One look into Tom Riddle's livid eyes and Hermione knew he was not a delusion.

* * *

He grabbed her. He yanked her body against his. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her arms and branded her with them.

He kissed her. He was so angry, so frustrated, that it was the only action that occurred to him. That she would be here, with _Malfoy_ , of all conceivable people—

Anger ripped through him, and he crushed his lips to hers, their teeth clashing painfully, and gave his anger free reign. His hand went to the back of her neck and tugged on the curls viciously, even as he felt the ghostly pain of it himself from the joining ritual. He didn't care. He relished it even. He would make her _regret_ , make her _fear_. She wouldn't even think about—

A yawning gulf opened up beneath him when he thought about her with _him_ , and he kissed her all the harder and stepped deftly away from it.

She fought. Scratched at his arms, his chest, his face, anything she could reach. It took all of his effort to keep her still enough, and even then she wasn't silent; her screams muffled in his mouth. He dug his fingers deeper into her flesh and Apparated.

He pushed her away from him. She stumbled, hip catching on the iron footboard of the bed. She fell backwards. In slow motion, her arms windmilled, trying to find a catch hold, her face an artist's rendering of terror—

—and he could just imagine her birdlike bones shattering on the wood floor. His hands shot out, and he caught her by the hips before she could fall. The look she gave him in his arms…

He liked it.

His fingers tightened. The sharpness of her hipbones sent alarm rushing through him. He realized, for the first time since he'd turned up at Malfoy's and caught her just as she was arriving, she didn't look like she had when he last seen her at Christmas. Skinnier—not slimmer, since exercise and dieting wouldn't make her ribs poke out of her skin like a sideshow in the circus. Her hair was lank, like she hadn't bathed for days, her skin made of wax, and she was without that stupid, abominable shine she usually brought into every room she entered.

"What the _hell_ happened?"

"Get away from me!" He let her push him away. Her emancipated frame swayed, her eyes going glassy and unfocused. "Just stay away," she said. Softer. Timid. If he hadn't known her so well, _too_ well, he would have thought she was pulling one of Ambresia's best stunts: attack of the vapours.

He shook his head, jaw clenching. "Who did this to you?" He couldn't believe it was Abraxas. He knew the ramifications of such a thing too well. Cygnus?

No, not even as desperate as he was now to gain favour with his father. Besides, this was deliberate torture, and Cygnus Black had no such tastes.

"Stay away from me," she whispered. Her wand trembled so hard he knew she'd drop it in a few moments.

"Hermione." He raised his hands slowly, let her watch him reach into his pocket and pull out his wand. Her wand steadied. She aimed at his heart. Good girl, he thought.

Slowly, wondering if this was the wrong thing to do with a Hermione turned wild creature, he set his wand down on the bedside table.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

She scoffed. She didn't lower her wand. "I don't believe you."

His lips thinned. "Hermione, you need to calm down. You're safe here with—"

"No." She shook her head. He thought her frail neck might snap with the movement. "I'm going to Hogwarts." She began backing toward the door. Exhaustion almost overran the fear in her eyes. She reached the door. She fumbled behind her back for the handle.

"I'll talk to you there. Not here."

The door opened. She slipped out, keeping her eyes and wand on him. The door shut.

Left alone, he wondered what in Salazar had happened to her.

* * *

She barricaded herself in the prefect's bath first thing. Having the Head Girl's confidence meant more than a few extra hall passes—not that Minerva had given her any, mind.

She turned on the hot water, forgoing bubbles, and undressed as the tub filled. Her clothes, a copy of the ones Lucius Malfoy had brought her that first night, would have to be burned. Just that simple.

She didn't mind the sting as she got in, dipping her head under and coming up gasping. Could barely feel it when the revelation, the gift, that she was _alive_ protected her from all pain. She had _survived._

It wasn't until she dunked her head underwater the second time, scrubbing hard at her scalp, that realization overwhelmed her. She came up fast, spluttering and spitting. Cold fear crawled into her belly and crouched there.

Voldemort had summoned her once, he could do it again.

And with her work on the mirror, he could come back, too.

Out of Malfoy Manor and out of Lord Voldemort's grip—and still in the fire.

* * *

Harry looked at Malfoy.

"You think she got it?"

Malfoy stopped tapping on his Arithmancy textbook and sat back, propping his feet on the table. Harry had the impulsive urge to slap them back down.

"We can guess," he said, flicking a piece of lint off his robes. Harry started to think his urge didn't sound so childish after all.

"So you don't know," he summed up. He stood up, struggling with another urge: to punch his pointed chin round. "You told me she'd get it. That we would be able to talk to her."

"We're working on wishes and dreams here, Potter. What in Merlin's beard did you _expect_? An immediate reply?"

He didn't answer. Malfoy closed his eyes, like he was struggling with his own urges, and turned his face away.

"Patience, Potter," he muttered.

Harry sat back down. "Look, Draco—can I call you Draco?"

"No."

He gritted his teeth. Hermione's voice mentally chastised him. He ungritted them.

"Look, Malfoy, we need more than this. Do you have any more spells like that Backward Time spell? A spell that can transport anything…" He paused. Malfoy looked at him. "Bigger?"

His eyes said he knew what Harry talked about. Practically shouted it to the ceiling. And—And Harry could admit it. He needed Draco Malfoy. Needed him like mould needed damp. Malfoy knew the spells like Harry didn't, even if he couldn't perform them with his restricted wand. Malfoy was like the Death Eater, entirely more annoying, version of Hermione.

He needed salvation from the nightmare that just sprang into his mind.

Malfoy sighed, glancing away again, and the entirely creepy vision of him with brown curly locks and a less posh, snottier, voice disappeared from his mind. The skirt went too, which Harry was _doubly_ thankful for.

"The Backward Time spell can only do small objects over a long time-period. Larger objects would require, well, something like Granger had at the Manor." He took his feet off the table, stretched his legs, careful not to touch Harry.

"And that kind of rune work requires an amount of power neither of us have—not even you, Potter." He shook his head, snorting. "Didn't know Granger had it in her, honestly. Always a bit uptight, you know?"

Harry stared.

"No, I _don't_ know," he said. He looked away from him, running a hand through his hair. Stranger and stranger… Had Malfoy just been _admiring_ Hermione?

 _Ugh_ , he thought, directing it toward Hermione, wherever she was. _Please come back, or at least explain yourself, before I drop Malfoy with a very large rock._

Rock… The Resurrection Stone.

But he didn't want to bring someone back to a half-life—Hermione wasn't dead, after all. No. But there was another that _could_ help, and he knew exactly where it was.


	21. Act Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer;** Don't own. If I did, do I think I would be writing fanfiction? (Though, yeah, I totally would.)

"... no man is useless  
while he has a friend."

—Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

"What do you mean you won't tell me?"

"I thought that was clear enough. Maybe I _have_ been overestimating your intelligence."

"Don't tempt me, Dumbledore," he said, his ire rising sharply. "You will regret it."

"Right now," she said, "I don't believe I will."

Tom stood up, went chest to chest with her. Her eyes, defensive, and her ready to strike stance never wavered. Wrapped within and around and between as their anger was, it felt like a full force gale wind struck him full in the face.

"Trust me," he whispered. "You do _not_ want to fight me. You have no extent of the power I hold."

"You're right," she said, stepping back. Her expression turned helpful, expectant, and entirely mocking. "Why don't you show me? Unless…" Her wand fell into her hand. "You're afraid."

He clenched his hands, unclenched them. He didn't deign to answer her theatrics. Dramatic fools, the whole lot of Dumbledores. He'd already decided before he asked her to his dormitory that he would be calm, patient, and that was what he would be.

No matter how irritating the little bitch acted.

"Tell me what happened to you."

"If I were to tell someone—which I'm not—I would tell a friend." She raised her eyebrows. "You are the farthest thing from a friend as the Giant Squid."

"Merlin," he muttered, turning away. He wanted to pace, to pace and pace until he broke through the stone and reached the foundation. Then he wanted to pace until he broke through that too, and touched the dirt underneath.

He refrained, however. He was trying to be understanding. Merlin he was. But Hermione Dumbledore could try his patience within seconds.

"Why don't you just leave me alone, Riddle? I mean"—she closed her eyes, putting a hand to her head—"it would be so much easier."

He wanted to strike her. "For whom?"

She opened her eyes, dropping her hand, and scoffed at him before starting toward the door. "If you don't know the answer to that, you're just as dense as Wilkes."

"You think people aren't going to notice?" Tom said. She didn't turn around, but neither did she open the door. Grim amusement filled him. Predictable, just like every other pathetic creature in this school. "You think no one will notice how unwell you are, or that you disappeared for almost the entire hols? They're not as bright as I am, but they'll figure it out. Even Wilkes."

He came to stand behind her. Just inches away. She smelled clean, fresh, new and old at the same time, like the Forbidden Forest in spring. He captured her hands, quick, and pressed them into the door, following it by pressing his front to her back.

"There is also our marriage to consider," he said. Now that he was this close, he wanted closer. Damn that ritual, he wanted to crawl inside her.

He nudged her hair aside, rested his lips on the shell of her ear. She stayed still.

"We are linked," he continued. "Intricately bonded. I could no longer stay away from you as you are unable to keep from coming back." He felt her shiver before she pressed back into him, as incapable as he from stopping.

He pulled her left hand across her stomach, wrapping her, holding her, and pulled her closer, leaving their right hands on the door.

He started at her neck, where her jumper ended, and worked his way up, dropping soft butterfly kisses, barely touching her delicate flesh before moving to the next spot.

"This situation is unfair," he whispered between each one. "I know, Hermione. We never asked for this." And here he moved their hands. Down, then under her jumper, until he felt the heat of her skin for the first time. The fire of the righteous, he knew. It burned beneath her skin, powering her. Heat, heat, heat—all of it, the entire magnitude, just simmering underneath her, waiting for its moment to spill over. His eyes went half-lidded.

"We never asked for this bond. But we can use it. Together, this magic entwining our magic, we're faster, smarter, _stronger_ than any of our enemies." He pressed his lips against her ear again, willing her to hear him, to answer him correctly this time. "Together," he whispered, "we can make whoever did this to you, who hurt you, _pay._ It's what they deserve."

Silence. It spun and spun. He wanted to shake her, to spin more words, to seduce her if he had to, if that was what it took to get her to agree. But he couldn't. The silence was fragile, and he knew this was his only chance.

She would answer right.

"No," she said. Her voice shook. He realized she was laughing.

She exited their embrace. Helpless as his hands followed, he felt those too sharp hipbones once more. She smiled up at him. It was a smile he never wanted to see on her face again. Desperate, almost hysterical. Whoever had done this, she was afraid—bad.

"No," she said again. "As tempting as your offer sounds in theory, it would never work."

"That so?"

Her smile dimmed, but didn't diminish. He knew this one, could tolerate it better. "That's so," she said. She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. He turned his head toward her, but she leaned back. Her eyes sparkled with something that was not quite humour. "He's already dead."

"You killed him?" His voice came out huskier than he intended.

"I'm a Slytherin," she answered.

"I wondered."

"Don't worry about me, Riddle." Her fingers walked up his chest, and her smile teased just as well. She held onto his neck and he leaned down just as her lips parted and they met in the middle.

Exactly like the first time: pandemonium. Something inside him went _boom_ , exploded and imploded, and there was a low keen at the back of her throat, the detonation to double, triple more explosions. He wanted to follow it, to taste it, to swallow it. He wanted it inside him so he could hear it anytime he wanted.

And who could have known her lips were so _soft,_ so, so—exactly like her? So _different_ from any other girl.

He'd never tried other girls. He'd had no interest in them. But she kept pulling and pulling at him, from her unmanageable hair to her erratic temper. Pulling him even when he tried to push it, and her, away.

Uncontrollable was what it was.

Slowly, they pulled away. Tom found he was gasping, and he was only marginally relieved to see her just as out of breath.

"It's almost supper," she said, her eyes still shut. "The others will be back soon."

"Tell me something." He waited until she reluctantly opened her eyes and looked at him with eyes as dark as his. "Why did you Apparate to Malfoy's first? Why not Hogwarts or your house?"

"I don't know. I just did." She shrugged. Her nails dug lightly into his neck, sending pleasurable chills down his spine. "Maybe because I don't know where Minerva lives."

He smiled and bent to kiss her neck. She tasted like soap, and sweet nectar, and he would become a glutton if sense never returned. Right then, he didn't see anything bad about that.

"Tell me something else," he said. His fingers slipped under her jumper. The jumper was soft, her skin softer. He tasted her neck again, tasted anticipation.

"What?" Her voice a whisper, an unintended effect to his cause.

"Did he have any relatives?"

"No."

"That is"—she gasped as his thumb found a sensitive spot—"disappointing."

She laughed. Husky, inviting, every cadence telling him that this would progress further than teasing. A lot further.

He abandoned the skin under her jumper, planning on working on the jumper itself. His leg slipped between hers; his thigh pressed tight against the prize her skirt so generously offered.

She gasped. Her nails dug into his neck, sending dozens of small lightning storms along his nerves on a straight shoot to his cock.

She just kept pulling away at him. The blood from her veins swam through his; each beat of his heart entwined it further into his system. Pulling, pulling, engaging every synapses as her blood called to her body, as her tongue pulled his into her mouth. It had gone too far, way too far, and there was little to stop it now.

His wand vibrated its alarm. A second later, Hermione's.

More difficult, this time, to pull away. He did so, however, sensing the same reluctance within her.

"I found the potion recipe for the severing," he said, allowing himself a last touch, a last inhale. "Next week we may start it."

Relief, sweet and triumphant, filled him when he witnessed her shaky smile.

"Good." Her hands fell from his shoulders. "Not that—I mean to say—"

"I know." His lips tilted down. "Now go, before the spell remembers there are several beds in this room, all very much unoccupied."

She went.

* * *

As soon as the door shut, she collapsed against it. _So close_ , she thought.

She'd only just dug herself out of the hole she'd fallen into, and Tom Riddle just _had_ to take the shovel out of her hands and knock her back in. It was becoming extremely annoying.

She closed her eyes. What had got into her? She wasn't Ambresia. She wasn't the type to use her body as a tool. She didn't use _sex_ as a tool.

Only, she had, and only the smallest part of her protested.

Hermione touched her lips.

 _Thick, cloying, suffocating._

All could be said of Tom Riddle. But it ignored the most important—and disturbing:

 _Sweet._

* * *

Her first stop once supper ended and they were ordered to their beds was Professor Dumbledore's office. He opened the door and looked both ways before welcoming her inside. He didn't appear surprised.

She laid out everything she could and spared nothing. Now wasn't the time to quibble over the theoretical problems that came with time-travel. Tom Riddle, Voldemort, the book, the fact that she had created a rune sequence that allowed time-travel and the more upsetting fact that Voldemort knew about it.

"This is very unsettling."

 _Preaching to the choir,_ she thought.

He had nothing more to say than that.

Hermione couldn't believe it, Dumbledore just letting her go off like this; even _Harry_ would have received a vacation. A week at least! Not—not just patted on the head and congratulations on creating the spell of a lifetime. She wondered how such an attitude could warrant the amount of loyalty he inspired in the populace. It was incomprehensible.

Yet, at the same time, absolutely predictable.

When she left, some time had passed since dinner ended and she entered Dumbledore's office, and curfew long past. She planned on sneaking into the library and studying wards, maybe find one that made it impossible to be summoned across time and dimension. She made a left at the staircase and almost ran over Missy.

"Missy!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry! I didn't hurt you did I?"

"Missy knew you were there, little mistress. She did not expect you so soon from talks with Master."

"I, um, didn't either," she said. "Do you need something? I believe Professor Dumbledore is still awake."

"Missy needs you, Little Mistress. Not Dumbledore."

She grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the kitchens, her grasp tight, unyielding; a no choice kind of hold.

"Us needs to talks in private, too. We must get to kitchens."

"I don't think the kitchens are that private, Missy," she pointed out sensibly, keeping her voice down.

Missy looked back with what Hermione thought she'd call her ornery look for lack of a better term for the amount of hostility and condescension broadcast with that single look.

"It is very private for house elves."

Hermione didn't think it would be worth pointing out that she wasn't a house elf, therefore unsafe for her. It wasn't worth the look she would receive.

Missy dropped her hand immediately upon entering the kitchens, and bustled off into the crowd of house elves. Hermione lost her for a second and wondered if she'd just been commissioned to walk a house-elf back to her home territory. Actually, the whole school was a house-elf's territory.

Well. That shook things up a bit.

Missy returned a few seconds later, and following her were two monks.

Hermione did a doubetake. _Monks?_ For honestly, that was really what they looked like—two monks, dressed in red wool, ropes across their substantial stomachs, and…

They both looked like Professor Slughorn.

"Er."

 _Was creepy an understatement here?_

"Finally!" said the Slughorn on the left as he pulled off his hood. "We've been waiting _forever_. You have no idea what essence of Slughorn tastes like!"

"Wha— _Malfoy?_ "

"It's _ghastly,"_ said the right Slughorn with a fierce nod that seemed to settle the matter.

"What are you two _doing_?" Hermione demanded, turning to the right Slughorn, the one she determined to be Cygnus. "You're not playing cloak and dagger again, are you?" She rolled her eyes. "Really, Cygnus, I thought you two were mortal enemies this week."

Cygnus spluttered.

This was enough to make Hermione pause. Cygnus didn't splutter. He would never let something so crass pass his lips. He was the utterly poised and perfect pureblood, only matched by Abraxas's impeccable breeding—Abraxas, whose jaw was currently collecting dust on the floor.

Plus, Cygnus hadn't spoken two words to her at dinner. Riddle had been right that the Diagon Alley attack and Hermione's supposed killing of Grindewald's general would put a damper on their relationship. That Cygnus would be here now, speaking _cordially_ , was incongruous.

"Wilkes?" she ventured uneasily.

"Only four months and you've forgotten us entirely," the other Slughorn drawled after catching his errant jaw. Yes, that was Abraxas's drawl, but…

Four months—her brain prodded her. Her mouth fell open in shock, replacing Malfoy's on the floor. But it wasn't _Abraxas_ Malfoy, but _Draco_ Malfoy.

"No," she said faintly. She looked between the two. _"No."_

She threw herself at them. It was a little hard, seeing as Slughorn was taller than her and wrapping her arms around _two_ Slughorns meant their heads cracked together as her feet lifted off the ground, but she was laughing and delirious, and exclaimed, "If you two didn't look like Slughorn I'd kiss you!"

"Don't let that stop you," Harry said—and yes, now she could recognize his voice; it was a wonder she had mistaken him for Cygnus now—"I think Malfoy—Ow!"

"Watch where you put your feet, Potter."

"I can't believe you two," Hermione said, pulling back but keeping her hands on their shoulders. She felt like she could dance the rumba on her hands. Her cheeks were stretched from her wide smile. "How did you _do_ it? I didn't think anyone would be powerful enough."

"You forget who is master of a certain wand," Harry said, his walrus mustache twitching in what she was sure was a smirk. He really _had_ been spending time with Draco, then!

"No!" she said, but couldn't drop her grin. "It's dangerous!"

"Only for him," Draco said, stopping her before she could start a good lecture. "Now, come on. We need to get out of here."

"You mean—" Her smile withered at the expectant looks on both their faces. Her heart stuttered—No, not just when she got them back… She couldn't lose them, especially to her own folly.

If she had only locked her trunk that night!

But, she supposed, Fate would have found a way regardless.

"What, Hermione?" Harry asked, a hint of nervousness entering his voice. "What is it?"

"I." She swallowed. "I can't go back. Not yet at least."

"You haven't found a way out of the marriage yet?" Draco asked with his usual ability to pinpoint a problem.

 _But,_ she thought, a little hysterically, _I never told them!_

"Ministry records," Harry explained with a shrug that almost looked normal. So he wasn't entirely blasé to the news. She wondered how he had acted after he first found out, and winced.

"Riddle says he found a potion for the severing," she said, shock taking over and controlling her mouth, before something more horrible intruded on her thoughts. "Um, I don't quite know how to say this, but the timeline might have been compromised."

"Compromised is a good word for a Diagon Alley massacre." Draco snorted, folding his arms. Despite his Slughorn appearance, he looked quite Malfoyish as he turned his nose up. "We know everything, Hermione, so we don't need to waste time with it. We need to _leave_ before your megalomaniac husband comes!"

 _True._ Yet…

"Everything?" she asked. "Did Dumbledore or McGonagall tell you that I left mysteriously after the Christmas hols?"

Draco wrinkled Slughorn's nose. "That shouldn't matter. You changed history once, it won't be too hard to change it again. Even if we do have to rely on Potter," he added almost as an afterthought.

"You guys," Hermione said, lowering her voice as she realized they had a very eager and willing to serve audience. "I really, _really_ appreciate this, you have no idea, but I _can't_ stay married to… to You Know Who! Besides, there's another force at work here. I don't think it will _let_ me leave yet. Not until its work is done." She fingered the beaded bag in her pocket, and wondered if Fate would allow her to tell anyone else. She hadn't tried before, but considering her company before this, it was no wonder.

Avoiding their eyes, she said, "We should talk somewhere more private."

They grimaced simultaneously and looked distastefully at each other.

"Maybe we could wait for the Polyjuice to wear off?"

* * *

"Hermione and—" Abraxas fished for the word for the two… men beside Hermione. "Her two friends." He lifted an inquiring brow at Hermione. He had been under the impression that she and Tom were something of… well, _item_ would not adequately describe the chimera baiting that was their relationship. But close.

Her two friends were puzzling, however. The black-haired one was handsome, he supposed, in a Black way, and Abraxas promptly dismissed him as being unworthy of notice. The other was far superior, though nowhere near his realm of attractive. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Hermione, who was…

Oh ho! It appeared he had stumbled onto something she had wanted to keep secret. He shifted toward her, and saw her eyes flash with the knowledge that he knew he had the upperhand.

"Abraxas," she said, her body shifting to match his. "I didn't expect to see you out at this hour."

"You haven't introduced me to your friends," he chided her, and watched as her cheeks pinkened. Really, he did love getting a rise from her. Especially if there were secrets involved, like the letter Ambresia had found in her dormitory that Hermione obviously wanted to be kept from Tom.

"Draco Ladon," the blond said, holding out his hand to shake. His grip was firm and his fingers callused. Quidditch, he thought, approving. "And this is my cousin Harry Potter. Unrelated to the Potters here," he added with a touch of a smile.

"French, are you?" Abraxas said, admiring Draco's white blond hair. He glanced at the other, Harry, whose hand he ignored. Not Veela, then.

"From Beauxbatons," Hermione said. "I was just bringing them to the Headmaster's office. Join us?"

Yes, bringing them to the Headmaster's office from the fourth floor. His lips twitched, but he had more important duties than teasing a flush into her cheeks, though it would be entertaining. "Actually, I would be delighted to bring them to the Headmaster in your stead. Tom is looking for you," he added, glancing at the other wizards to catch their reactions.

Harry—what a common name for a common wizard—looked aside, face flushing and jaw clenched. Draco didn't blink.

Well. He didn't have any competition _there._

 _Not that I'm in the competition at all,_ he thought, a smidgeon resentfully. _What with Tom hoarding her like a dragon and his treasure._

"I was on my way to visit Uncle, actually," Hermione said, interrupting his thoughts. She turned to the other two, and her uneasiness touched her smile. "You'll be in good hands with Abraxas, Harry, Draco. He's the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. See you at breakfast."

She raised her eyebrows at Abraxas as she passed him by, a smug smile teasing her lips. He turned to watch her leave—she really did look emaciated. Too thin, the circles under her eyes large enough to hold his favourite boots, and fraying at the edges. She did not look well at all. Tom had mentioned something happening to her over the holidays, but Abraxas had not paid adequate attention. Perhaps that had been erroneous of him.

"Well," he said to his companions when he thought he had stared enough and Hermione had ascended the staircase. He rubbed his hands together and smiled affably. "I may not be as attractive as Miss Dumbledore, but no one has ever accused Malfoys of being poor hosts!"

* * *

Hermione paused outside Dumbledore's office and did a quick, silly dance of glee. Her _friends_ had come for her! She wasn't _alone with Tom Riddle_ anymore!

She fairly _wriggled_ with delight!

"Well, hello, Hermione," Dumbledore said from beside her. She jumped, flushed to the marrow, and became very occupied with her shoestrings. "Out for a midnight dance?"

"Actually," she said, hearing and tamping down on the note of hysteria in her voice. Now was not the time, and Dumbledore had already witnessed a great many of her humiliating moments. Just because he caught her… dancing didn't mean it was the end of the world. Though it may have been. "I had some important news." She swallowed, wondered if they should go into his office, and then disregarded it. Everyone was likely in their dormitories now. "Some friends of mine have… arrived. Beauxbatons refugees seeking asylum. They're both in seventh year."

With each declaration, Dumbledore's graying eyebrows rose higher and high until they almost disappeared under his nightcap.

"Astonishing," he said a few seconds later, where he had stared at her as if she'd professed to a career of selling yarn. "These are _old_ friends of yours?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione said, her grin widening. "Abraxas Malfoy intercepted me on the way here and he insisted that he bring him to Headmaster Dippet. I hope you don't mind?"

"No, no," Dumbledore said. His congeniality seemed to be back in place, and he gave her a toothy grin. "I can hear Armando calling me now, actually, probably to witness their Sorting. Goodnight to you, Hermione."

"And you," Hermione said. _Really, I haven't been this enthusiastic since… I can't even remember a time._ She fairly skipped back to the dungeons, only restraining herself when she remembered that a proper pureblood didn't skip.

It contained a myriad of problems, a whole Hagrid-sized crate full, but Hermione could not find it in herself to think of the logistics just yet. Draco, Harry and her could drum that out tomorrow. In the morning. When there was a chance of saying _Draco, Harry, and I_ without the belief it was all a dream.

She caught herself when she started humming. Proper purebloods did not _hum._

She did anyway, just a little.

* * *

"This is a horrible idea."

Draco scoffed, glancing sideways. "You had this idea from the very beginning."

"I did not," Potter said, all manner of offended. Draco wasn't fooled. Potter had always been easier to see through than air. It was the one constant of Hogwarts, like McGonagall getting her knickers in a twist over Slytherins.

Draco drummed his fingers on the table, keeping one eye out for Hermione. "You _packed_ , Potter." That he too had packed was of no consequence. He merely understood Hermione better than her supposed best friend did.

"At least my grandfather wasn't _flirting_ with a Muggleborn," he muttered with a glare.

"And they say Slytherins are prejudiced." Draco had already figured that out from Abraxas's portrait—that Harry thought knowing something twice would disturb him was childish. "By the way, you're supposed to be French."

"I'm a Slytherin now, you know," he said. But he took his wand out and began casting the spell on himself, so Draco was satisfied. The urge to turn him into a flobberworm passed. That he'd been able to sweet talk himself at all into Slytherin was gag-worthy. He glanced back toward the doors as Hermione walked in. Her face, strained with anticipation, cleared when she saw them. Her smile was so brilliant it _almost_ made the hunted-look on her face disappear.

"Something's happened to her recently," Draco murmured, just in case Potter hadn't noticed the haunted look on his best friend's face and made a huge gaffe in his ignorance. "Look how thin she is, malnourished."

"Voldemort," Potter muttered. "It's him. Behind her."

"Don't go turning into Moody." He elbowed Potter in the side when he tensed like he was about to attack. "Are you _trying_ to put Hermione in danger?"

Potter muttered something again, but Draco ignored him, instead studying Tom Riddle. Tall and broad, handsome, with a smile that lit his face—no wonder no one had connected him with Lord Voldemort. Draco himself couldn't sense a shred of evil about him, and as a Malfoy he thought he had good authority on these things.

Then again, no one had taken _him_ seriously, either, until he let Death Eaters into the school and allowed Snape to kill Dumbledore.

 _That_ had been a meeting he would have happily missed. Dumbledore seemed the same doddering old fool, but the way he had looked at Draco seared him to the very bone. _Note to self: No more meeting with people you've tried to murder._

That put out a surprising amount of people in the world for him to socialize with, including two people in his vicinity now.

Riddle caught up to Hermione. She said something, pointing in their direction. Draco watched as she looked up to Riddle, leaned into the hand he placed on her elbow. He hoped vaguely that Potter hadn't seen, and wished he hadn't seen himself, but he had barely looked away when his eye was drawn back and he watched her extricate herself from Riddle's side and come to sit by them.

"I can't believe you're actually here," she whispered excitedly as she slid onto the bench beside him. Her arm brushed against his as she leaned over him. The brightness in her eyes dimmed but didn't go out as she said, "Harry, really, try _not_ to glare at the Head Boy. He's perceptive on that type of thing. I should know." Her lips quirked.

"What happened to you, then?" Draco demanded. Just seeing her smiling up close was enough to anger him. Further away, she looked ill, but this close he could see the strain it took to hold her smile, the subtle lines by her mouth, the dark circles under her eyes. "You look horrible."

Her face closed. It happened so quickly Draco wasn't sure he would have noticed it if she wasn't inches from his face. She shut herself off entirely, and behind her eyes a wounded animal retreated to its cave.

"I don't wish to talk about it, Draco," she said, and tugged at her hair as she turned her head aside. "Please," she said when he opened his mouth to demand an explanation. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Please. I'll tell you both, but _later._ "

"Alright," Potter said, making him flinch. He'd almost been able to forget the annoying gnat. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, but he wasn't shrinking from Hermione, or calling her a traitor, so Draco relaxed by inches. He really did sound funny with a French accent. "So what can we talk about?"

"Let's talk about classes," Hermione said.

Almost covering Potter's groan, a voice from behind him said, "I thought you said you would introduce me to the newest members of our House, Hermione." Tom Riddle smiled down at them all, but a chill tinged his voice as he looked at Draco. "I'm Tom Riddle, Head Boy."


	22. Act Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer;** I do not own Harry Potter or its characters, nor do I make money off this fan work.

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.  
—Oscar Wilde

* * *

"Harry! Come over here, would you?" Hermione tensed, but when Riddle glanced at her, she was digging in her bag for her favourite quill.

Harry waved back and began walking toward them on the front steps of the school, windswept and breathless. He'd allowed himself to be roped into a small Quidditch match with a group of Slytherin and Ravenclaw seventh years during free period. Abraxas, unsurprisingly, had warmed up to him considerably once he saw his skill on a Cleansweep. (Draco, meanwhile, had been horrified at the broom he would have to use, and had muttered something about going to the library.)

"Why don't you ever have a quill case?" Riddle asked with a tiny sigh, which was enough to tell Hermione he was considering hari-kari. "One would think you would."

"I do, but _someone_ keeps stealing it and writing dirty limericks on it!" Hermione snapped. If she ever had to read about Kelly on the moors again, she would simply have to kill Abraxas, damn the timeline.

Harry, after that time at the breakfast table where Hermione had been sure he would curse the future Dark Lord, had adapted quite quickly to the past. He was mum on the subject of his past to the curious, but so amiable that even the Slytherins had warmed up to him. Draco had been the same way, though Hermione thought she could attribute that to his pureblood training and not any natural inclination to be polite. Also, already knowing the particular politics and attitudes in the Slytherin common room, Draco had quickly insinuated himself into Riddle's bubble. He'd told Harry when he asked how he could do it that Tom Riddle the Head Boy was considerably less terrifying than Lord Voldemort the snake-faced Dark Lord. Hermione was less sure of that, seeing as she thought Riddle was plenty scary now, but Draco had spent a large chunk of his seventh year in the same house as Voldemort, so she had bowed to the expert.

"I expect it was a good game?" Riddle asked when Harry had reached them.

"Yeah," Harry said, his smile lop-sided as he glanced at Hermione. His eyes were more cautious when he looked at Riddle. "You need something, Tom?"

"Seeing as Hermione here is busy"—he cast a mock glare at her—"I was hoping you would allow me to tutor you in Potions. I noticed you had some problems getting into the shape of things this week. Beauxbatons isn't known for its challenging syllabi, so it's understandable, really. We Slytherins have a reputation to uphold, however…" He trailed off, and Harry nodded.

"Sure thing," he said. "Do you want to start now?"

Taken aback, Hermione had to hide her face in her bookbag again as she grinned. Harry really _had_ grown up some, if he could take that from Riddle and not snap back. Or he had taken acting classes between playing Quidditch with Ron at the Burrow.

"Go on ahead and I'll catch up," Riddle said. He waited until the doors had closed behind Harry before pecking Hermione on the cheek.

Shock had long gone out of her at these casual displays of affection. She knew what their relationship looked like to the rest of the school, and Riddle liked angering her by playing it up. Tucking her arm through his on the way to classes, waiting until she sat down at the table before seating himself, basically acting like a husband going to war when he had to leave her side. Infuriating, but acceptable. She didn't think she could make a scene, anyway. She wanted even less than him for more rumours of their relationship to be bandied about and someone mistakenly hitting upon the truth. This way, it was controllable. She had even caught Dumbledore looking at her with approval—he had cottoned on to the play, too.

"Sit with McGonagall at lunch," he told her. "You can come back for dinner."

She scoffed and pulled her robes tighter against the wind. "I'll sit wherever I want," she said archly and walked away before he could retort, heading toward the Quidditch pitch.

Speaking of Cygnus, she noticed him sitting at the top of the Slytherin stands. She sighed, but decided this was more important than the physical discomfort of climbing a thousand stairs to reach him. The things I do for my friends, she thought as she began the climb. Even the reluctant ones.

Though, if she had to be honest with herself, she would be doing this for herself more than Cygnus. She had Harry and Draco again—she no longer needed Cygnus's friendship as much as she had when she was alone here in the 40's. She no longer needed it, but she wanted it anyway. She wanted them to be on good terms again, to be able to talk to him at mealtimes and discuss his NEWT Potions project. She wanted to be able to walk into the same room as him and not feel a chill.

She wanted her friend back.

Cygnus noticed her presence when she was at the bottom of his set of stands, though he turned his head away and pretended he hadn't when she tried to catch his eye. She steeled herself against the hurt that that _still_ caused, after weeks of these petty acts, and remained on course. He didn't look up at her when she reached him. At least, he didn't until she stood on the stand in front of him and blocked his view of the Quidditch pitch.

He shifted, mulishness in the lines of his face, but he didn't walk off. Hermione thought that was a good sign.

"Where's your scarf?" he muttered, not glancing up at her.

"I lost it when your father's colleagues tried to murder me," she said. Putting her hands on her hips, she took advantage of the shock that made Cygnus gape up at her. "When are you going to stop acting like a first year girl, Cygnus? You knew my last name when you befriended me and now you're acting as if I've betrayed you by _being_ a Dumbledore."

He stayed silent, blinking at her as if she had started speaking Gobbledygook. This was the most they had said to each other since the afternoon of Grindewald's attack. _That_ almost derailed her thoughts into sadness. She jutted her chin out.

"It's not very Slytherin of you, Cygnus."

"Is that what this is, Hermione?" He sneered nastily. "The pupil teaching the teacher?"

"I just don't understand how you can act like you're so much better than Abraxas. You're just as childish as he is."

His face turned to stone. He tilted his head, eyes washing over her and finding her wanting. "Lucky it isn't your problem, then."

"You're the one who made me notice the realities of Slytherin, Cygnus. That the students who revolve around Riddle are different than the ones who don't, that those who come from Dark backgrounds are different than the neutrals and the Light, that those whose families support Grindewald are different than the ones who don't talk about him at all. You taught me that, and now you're trying to act as if it doesn't matter? As if I should have thrown away my upbringing as soon as Grindewald's people attacked and—what? Joined them? Put my wand to my head? _Tell me what I should have done._ "

Cygnus _snarled._ Actually snarled. He jumped to his feet and his face was inches from hers, their noses almost touching. His eyes were crazed, and not a little terrifying when she recognized Bellatrix in them. Hermione allowed herself to let her eyes widen—she didn't allow herself to back away or turn around and run, though her insides trembled.

"You should have _stayed out of it_. You should have _ran._ You should have done _exactly_ what you did. You definitely shouldn't have called Tom. Is that what you want to hear, Hermione? That _I don't know_." He looked away, and Hermione heard a low noise that she recognized a second later as his teeth grinding. "I just don't know, Hermione. Do you know how precarious my family's situation is now that the witch who I sit by every breakfast killed one of Grindewald's favoured generals?

"How can I _not_ loathe you when you've put my family in such a precarious position?" he asked. Hermione knew he wasn't asking for an answer.

He turned away with a huff, pushing a shaking hand through his hair. Hermione watched, astounded, unable to form words much less think of anything to say. She had thought their entire friendship lost after the massacre, but it seemed it hadn't been. She had forgotten the very words she had just spouted: Everything is more difficult than it appears on the surface. She hadn't thought once about how his family might be suffering, and of course Cygnus would care. It wasn't just their positions, she knew from having the example of Lucius Malfoy in front of her, but their _lives._

Hermione was the one acting childish and Cygnus was more complex than she had ever given him credit for.

 _I'm a fool,_ she thought.

Right then, Abraxas flew up beside them, hovering on his broom as he observed them, his unbound hair whipping past his face in the wind. His eyes swept over them both, as if checking for injuries, before he focused on Cygnus. He called out, "Hasn't hexed you yet, old chum?"

Cygnus leaned away from her, pulling at his sleeves to straighten them in what she suspected was his way of containing himself. "No," he said when he looked up, the angry flush had faded from his cheeks. Lowering his voice, he added to Hermione, "I'll try to be more cordial, Hermione, but I can never again be your friend."

"Wait," Hermione said before he could depart, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder. She glanced sideways at Abraxas, still hovering, before she did a wandless and nonverbal _Muffliato_.

"Be careful with Riddle," she told him, only tightening her hold when he tensed at the name. "You gave me a truth, so I'll give you one back. Riddle has been acting strange when your name is brought up. He's preparing to speak to you at lunch." She released a tight breath, hoping the information she had so carefully uncovered would not be revealed against her. "Be careful."

He eyed her for a moment, confusion evident in his eyes before they shuttered and she could see no more.

"Thank you," he murmured. She dropped her hand and stepped back. Quickly canceling the spell on Abraxas—he had the annoying habit of being as observant as much as he was a flirt—she stared at the spot Cygnus had been, determined not to go after him. If ever he decided he could risk becoming her friend again she would be there. For now, she had to defend her heart. She wouldn't go after him a third time.

"Fancy a limerick, Hermione?" Abraxas called to her. "I know one about a broom."

* * *

Minerva did not sigh, though she dearly wished to. Narcissa Malfoy as a concerned parent was one thing—Minerva had had to deal with her enough when Albus pawned Narcissa off on her during Draco's school year—but Narcissa Malfoy as a furious parent was quite another thing. She did not storm into Minerva's office, face glowing with rage, her wand out and _Avada Kedavra_ on her lips. She did not yell, scream, or utter threats about going to the Hogwarts governors. Rather, she crossed her ankles when she sat in front of Minerva's desk. She adjusted her robes as if the universe depended on how the fabric fell over her legs. Then she very quietly told Minerva how exactly she would revenge herself if Draco's hair was even _mussed_ when he returned; the words flaming, arrow, and eyeball was used most expressively.

Minerva did not enlighten Mrs. Malfoy that her son would be injured only _after_ he returned. Multiple times. And possibly transfigured into something very small and gilled and then thrown into the lake.

That _Harry_ would do something this idiotic, she had no doubt; that somehow Draco Malfoy had transformed enough from the weasel she had known throughout his school years to do this for someone he had only begun to get along with, a Muggleborn at that, she had her doubts.

What concerned her most, however, was the note Mrs. Malfoy showed her. Short and sweet, the note merely told Mrs. Malfoy that Draco was safe. It worried her, because when Mrs. Malfoy had left with assurances that Minerva would Floo her when her son showed up, Minerva had looked at Albus's portrait and received a single weary headshake in return.

It worried her that when they searched their memories neither she nor Albus could remember Harry or Draco.

Kingsley had already dispatched the Unspeakables.

* * *

"You have to control your friend," Draco complained as soon as she sat down beside him.

"Which one?" Hermione blinked. She'd never had to ask _that_ before. Generally it only ever meant Harry or Ron, occasionally Neville. She almost became distracted on trying to figure out how that had happened—how she had somehow made friends though she had forbidden herself all but Cygnus, but Draco thumped her when he saw she wasn't paying attention, and glared at her when she returned her eyes to him.

"I'm _trying_ to prevent an incident of epic proportions and you're not even listening!"

"Fine, fine," Hermione said soothingly, wondering if Draco had always been this whiny little prat. _Oh, yeah. He_ has. _I'm friends with him why?_ "What is it?"

"Your friend—" he began loudly. Hermione pinched him. They weren't the only ones in the common room. Draco stopped, rolled his eyes, and stood up, grabbing her wrist and dragging her with him. Shoving anyone in his path, he pulled her from the common room. Hermione hid her face when she caught Wilkes's eye in passing. So _everyone_ would know of her humiliation now.

"Let _go,_ Draco!" She yanked out of his grip and rubbed her wrist. Her frustration only rose when he barked an "Out!" to the mousy boy already occupying the room, who scuttled away and left the dormitory—set aside for when there were more seventh year boys than room for them that was now being used for housing refugees—empty.

After putting a ward on the door to put a shock worthy of a taser on whoever touched it, Draco finished his announcement from the common room just as loudly as before. "—is determined to commit suicide by _killing_ Tom Riddle."

"Right," Hermione said. She sat at the foot of one of the beds. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought over the scene between Riddle and Harry before lunch. Cordial, a little humour, general affability—yes, it practically _screamed_ homicidal urges.

He folded his arms. "You don't believe me."

She shrugged. "Harry's just not that good an actor. Besides, it's not as if he'll be allowed to—"

"Yes." Draco's lips spread in a slow smile. It sent a chill through her. He looked rather demented. "Riddle would kill him."

Hermione scoffed and leaned back, stretching out her legs. Glancing around at all the beds, she wondered if there would be more— _real_ —refugees arriving soon. Grindewald had been suspiciously silent since the Diagon Alley attack—the speculations in the _Prophet_ ran wilder every day. The speculation inside Hogwarts ran even wilder.

"Riddle would rather incapacitate him until he found out _why_ he attempted murder, and _then_ kill him. No, I was talking about Fate allowing Riddle to be killed."

"Ah, the book." Draco perfectly imitated Professor Trelawney's spookiness.

She ignored him. "Fate needs Riddle for some reason. It won't let him die before it gets what it wants, and I have the feeling it doesn't have it yet." Besides, there was the matter of the Horcrux she hadn't told them she had uncovered to consider. Riddle just _couldn't_ be killed yet.

 _Unfortunately_ , she added belatedly.

"What _does_ that book— _fine,_ Fate—want?"

"I wish I knew," she muttered. Only she did know. At least, she _thought_ she did from the story Salazar Slytherin had told her. Fate had been unbound by Gryffindor before his death—death Fate had gifted him and the other three Founders with, along with Ravenclaw's daughter and spurned suitor—and now it wanted her to destroy the book. But Hermione couldn't. Not yet. Fate had bound her and Riddle together in order for Hermione to use the book—but she had yet to figure out how to use it. Using it was the key to destroying it. She whispered to it and whispered to it and _nothing happened._ It was like…

It was just a book.

And she had the feeling destroying the book wasn't all that Fate wanted. Her dreams nowadays were about the astral plane, the wood she had met Salazar Slytherin in. Three cloaked figures surrounded her, and they whispered into books of their own. Hermione always woke up just as she was on the edge of finding out what it all meant.

"You can't tell us what it wants?" Draco asked as he sat down at the foot of the other bed, across from me. "Not even me?"

 _If anyone, I would tell Harry, not you,_ was her instinctive thought. Following that was the realization that she _would_ probably tell Draco first if she knew what the book wanted. Harry, despite his superb ability to maintain composure around Riddle, and despite the fact that he had come back for her _after_ he knew about her marriage to the man who killed his parents and made his schoolyears hell, just wasn't—

Harry just wasn't her best friend anymore.

She hadn't replaced him with Draco, or even Cygnus. Harry was still the dearest person to her. But Harry was from her _former_ life, as was Draco. Even being here now was not enough. Time changed everything. That Hermione had gone _back_ in time instead of the traditional forward made no difference to the saying. She had changed, irrevocably. Her old self, the self she was when Draco, Harry, and her were alone—just a Hermione Granger-shaped mask. They could no longer _be_ what they were to her, which made her glad. For it to be otherwise meant she would be crippled when they left again and that was something she could not afford. They _had_ to leave.

Ignoring his question in the process, she posed the question to Draco, hedging her voice so she didn't sound too enthusiastic for it.

"Leave?" He looked as if she had just told him Harry had cloned himself. "Why would I do that?"

"What about your father's trial? I thought you would be there," Hermione said, though Draco had never said such a thing. "And Harry has to testify at your mother's trial."

Draco blinked slowly, like a cat. "What if I wanted to stay?"

"You don't mean to say—"

"Malfoys mean what they say." He paused. "Unless we're lying. But when we're telling the truth, we mean it. As I do now."

"You can't _stay_ here!"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Everything!"

"You mean to," he said, in that perfectly reasonable tone. But Hermione was not perfectly reasonable, at least not the way he meant it. Perfectly reasonable right now was throwing Draco down a very dark well.

"I do _not!_ " How could he even think that? "I'm going back, of course I am. It's only a little matter of trying to get a wizarding divorce and erasing Grindewald's assault on Diagon Alley from history, oh and then making sure no Unspeakable murders me when I get back. Then there's the little matter of _having no way back_. Yes, it sounds _so_ easy. Let's go back now."

"You have one now," Draco pointed out. "You made it."

She gave him a wry look. "I don't have the power to use it." She stopped him when he opened his mouth, knowing what he was going to say. "Voldemort cast it. He somehow found out about it and sent me back."

"Potter…"

"You said yourself that the spell barely took _you_. It wasn't meant for two people. I only had one person in mind when I made it. Me. Trying to take three"—because of course neither of them would be left behind if she went, and she wouldn't allow it anyway—"would be impossible. And I don't think Harry would be too keen being our porter."

She thought she saw the mark went home. Harry would want to take Hermione to the future first, conveniently forgetting Draco in the past. Draco went pale, then red, and then looked like his revenge would be blowing himself up with the force of his rage.

"But why would you want to stay?" Hermione asked quickly, before she saw her first act of spontaneous combustion up-close. "It makes no sense."

He calmed down in increments, until he was able to adjust the fabric around his knee until the only lines there were the ones he wanted. He had learned a new way to cope, then. Better than what he _used_ to do, she admitted to herself. Or maybe it was always how he acted in the Slytherin dungeons, away from Harry's goading and Draco's need to be better.

"The same reasons as you, I imagine, though you won't admit it." Draco shrugged one shoulder. "For people like us, they are very good reasons."

She looked away, releasing a breath she wouldn't admit to. Why wouldn't he believe that she had no designs on staying in the past? It wasn't smart at all, and would bring no relief. It made her weary just thinking about it.

"You don't know me well at all, Draco."

"Better than most," he said. His eyes said the truth of the matter.

Hermione opened her mouth to tell him just what kind of fool he was being when a loud crash sent her ducking. It sounded like a gunshot or a heavy wood door meeting ancient stone, which was exactly what it was. Hermione loosened her death grip on her wand, wondering how it got in her hand to keep herself distracted from the look on Riddle's face.

She wondered if _Avada Kedavra_ could be cast with pure indifference. From Riddle's face, she thought so.

"Tom?" Draco asked when Riddle just went on staring, standing in the middle of the doorway. Nothing in Draco's voice suggested aggression. Even his palms were spread; his wand nowhere seen. Showing his belly to the wolf.

"Draco," Riddle said after a long moment. Then silence again. The severe lack of emotion was worse, she thought, than anything she had seen of him so far. Riddle blinked, and Hermione reconfigured her analogy. Snake. Riddle was pure snake. His head tilted, deciding on prey, before he said, "No locking charms on dormitory doors. It will have to be five points from Slytherin. Hermione"—and it was worse than seeing a basilisk in a mirror—"can I speak to you before dinner?"

Draco made a strangled noise in his throat. Hermione stood anyway—what else could she do?

"Do you need something?" she asked when they were on the stairs. She heard the dormitory door close behind them and knew Draco followed.

"Yes," he replied in that same expressionless voice. It made her think of full moons. Rising regardless of what pain it put people through; inevitable, and entirely negligent to the suffering it caused.

"What do you need?" she asked when it appeared he would lead her to the table in the corner of the common room and forget all about her, staring at the wall in the meantime. She started to get worried, only a step above frightened. This was not normal, not at all. Draco hovering behind her shoulder said the same thing.

Riddle blinked. Lines she hadn't noticed on his face cleared. He waved her to a seat. She loathed sitting with her back to the door—instincts from the war she thought she would never lose—but before she could protest Riddle slid into the seat across from her, his eyes moving as restlessly as water across the room behind her.

"I told you about my Potion project?" he asked. Hermione nodded. He had been playing with it since before she came here—a potion to control the Animagus transformation and choose and switch between forms. It was a temporary potion—a veritable Animagus Polyjuice. "I know you have private lessons with your uncle on the Animagus transformation," he said, and she recognized that there _was_ an emotion in his voice. Intent. Hermione realized that it wasn't meant for her or his pet project, but the room behind her. Not once did his eyes rest on her. "I know it's an ambitious project," he said. Now he looked at her, though his eyes flickered as if he would like to be scanning the common room again. "I think knowing more about the process of the initial Animagus transformation would be of tremendous value. Will you help?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to blink. This information was available in any number of books. The only reason becoming an Animagus was so hard and long was that most people didn't know themselves inside and out. Most often people gave up since that knowledge was hard to come by. That Riddle would ask her to help with this was suspicious.

Tentative and half wondering when he would strike her down, or she would look down and find herself naked, she agreed, and began telling him about her lessons so far. Draco eventually stopped hovering and Hermione was almost able to relax into her lecture with Riddle's attention off her. He didn't twitch, his eyes focused somewhere over her head. Hermione threw in a comment about elephants taking the trolley and, aside from a muffled noise from behind her, received no reaction. When the thirty minutes before dinner were up, Riddle tucked her arm into his elbow before she could slip away from his confusing company and lead her to the Great Hall. Then it was another half hour in his bemusing company, and her every question on Cygnus's absence dismissed. All along, Riddle watched the tables, the doors, and the dais. He didn't look the least hostile, just… intent, like before. Like a shepherd watching for wolves.

* * *

Hermione leaned back and tried to go to sleep. The canopy above her bed mocked her by just being there, being a canopy and therefore without a need for sleep.

 _This is stupid,_ she thought and rolled over. The edge of the book cut into her side. She pushed it away but still couldn't get comfortable. It had to do with Riddle's actions—or rather his _non_ -action these past two days. He was still annoyingly stuck to her like a limpet. It was almost as if he had found out who she really was—but then why didn't he just curse her and get it over with? She had no _patience_ for this game he was playing, a game where she had lost her pieces and couldn't find her rulebook. She sighed again and pulled the book toward her, pushing her hair behind her ear to better see it. She didn't whisper to it tonight. It had yet to answer so far. She flipped it open and thumbed through the well worn pages.

Something caught her eye. Her heart jumped. She sat up quickly, nevermind the blankets tangling, and quickly turned back.

Nothing.

Well, she thought, her brow furrowing. That was odd. She _had_ seen something—she was sure of it. A _rue!_ and _Salazar says_ for certain, but now it was gone.

She glared at the page, and then looked at the preceding ones. Maybe she had missed it somehow. But when she thumbed through the entire book, she had to admit to herself that maybe she had imagined it. She had had so few successes lately that imaging something this exciting and groundbreaking wasn't improbable.

But she was _sure_ she had seen something.

 _Right?_

Maybe it was because she had given up on sleep, or maybe because her subconscious, suspicious as it was, was listening for it, or maybe it was a freak collusion between Fate and free will to make her go mad.

The door squeaked.

She tore back the hangings, the blankets tangled around her feet like a ball and chain for the speed she really wanted to be at. She paused, touching her hair as something like slimy seawater slithered down the crown of her head—then the feeling disappeared. Shaking it away, she stepped forward, only to stop again when she noticed Ambresia.

Ambresia's wand inched higher. Surprise quickly morphed into triumph.

" _Look_ at yourself, you filthy—"

And then Riddle caught her by the throat and lifted her clear off the ground.

Hermione jumped forward, wand forgotten as she reached to stop him, but an arm appeared in front of her and she gasped as her stomach met a hard obstruction. She screamed and a beefy hand clapped over her mouth as his other hand pulled her arm behind her back. When she remembered her wand, it had already fallen to the floor.

Riddle raised Ambresia higher. She went limp. Without his hand around her neck she would have met the ground.

"Stop!" she yelled, struggling against Nott. Her hand connected with something, she heard a curse as his hold briefly loosened, and Nott went rigid. She knocked his arms off her just as he toppled to the ground.

Riddle was right in front of her, no obstructions and no henchmen. He wasn't even paying attention to her as he concentrated on Ambresia.

Hermione hesitated.

Ambresia crumpled to the ground. Riddle turned around smoothly, a dancer on the stage, and the look he gave her was so indecipherable for the moment that Hermione almost fell backward.

"Fix Nott," he told her, as if he were telling her the forecast for the game tomorrow.

Hermione found her tongue and her courage. " _What_ did you do to her." It wasn't a question.

Riddle, damn him, looked _bored._ "A spell that let me see into her mind." His wand appeared from nowhere and he pointed it at Nott. A moment later he shook his head and laboriously stood. Riddle nodded to Ambresia, and Nott lumbered over to her and picked her up. Ambresia looked like she was in rigor mortis; she was so pale and stiff. Hermione raised the hand that carried the Dumbledore ring, but Nott only carried Ambresia to her bed and laid her down.

"You might care to do something with your hair," Riddle said as he opened the door. His eyes left hers as Nott passed him by to the exit, and then Riddle followed him out. The door didn't creak as it closed.

Hermione went to Ambresia's bed and looked in. Her chest rose slowly—but it rose, and no strain showed on her face. Hermione went back to her own bed, retaking her wand along the way, her limbs slow and ungainly, and climbed back in. Her spot was still warm.

She glanced down at her hair. It was bright pink.

Hermione laid back and stared at the canopy above her bed.

It took only three minutes for her world to turn upside down.

Again.

* * *

The exact limerick Abraxas put on her quill case was:

On the moors Kelly walked in a daze  
There she'd bark at the moon and the haze  
Still her friends weren't concerned  
For by now they had learned  
Once a month she would go through this phase.


End file.
